


Do You Feel The New Day Rising?

by Brachydios



Series: Here We Are Again, Once More [4]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Family Angst, Family Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Canon, Recovery, Self-Harm, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-04-27 13:25:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14426349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brachydios/pseuds/Brachydios
Summary: Alphonse has not had a body of flesh and blood for five years - it takes some time to readjust.





	1. The Sun Sets

**Author's Note:**

> Not necessary to read previous installments of the series, but the connecting factor is that Alphonse is gay. Not a focal point within this fic, but concerns dialogue. Honestly, at this point, regardless of whatever FMA fic i write, Al's gonna be gay in it, regardless if its even explicitly stated, lulz.  
> Medical mumbo-jumbo in this is probably inaccurate, I'm not doctor, but if you're more knowledgeable in the field, then please feel free to comment and I'll correct/mend anything that's blatantly off.  
> Likewise, I don't know what medical shit would be prescribed for someone like Alphonse in ~1916, so what (very) little medical stuff present in this chapter is loosely based off modern day practices through the power of google.

When he reconnects with his original body at the Gate (frail, thin, so _small,_ he does not even recognize himself at first - but he feels the connection radiating within him, a soul yearning to return to its home), he feels no immediate change.

Indeed, sitting beyond the Gate, waiting for his brother, the only thing he feels coursing through him like a snake coiling around its prey is raw anticipation. He does not feel his heart beat, does not feel his blood course throughout his veins - in fact, he still feels as though he was when in his armoured body: distinctly lifeless with no hint of a biological process. The vast bleakness of the domain he currently sits is likewise, barren of life, including himself. A suspension of his physical, living being in the realm where no breathing thing should exist in the first place.

He knows that his life is in a state of limbo, awaiting the return of his brother to take him home, that his soul now occupies a vessel put on indefinite hold.

His heart does not beat, his blood does not flow, there is no feeling where his skin touches his own; he simply floats where he sits, numb, across the kneeled figure of Truth.

What he feels within is perhaps something that could have overwhelmed anyone who was truly connected to their own physical body - the eagerness inside him is an unmatched maelstrom that makes his soul rattle so viciously, he almost feels the sensation of his skin prickle.  

When Edward does arrive, his brother a most fantastic beacon that helps him onto his feet, he does not feel his brother’s contact, or the sensation of having weight on his legs.

It is only when he is reacquainted with the physical world does he actually feel, that he is truly _alive_ once more _,_ and within his original body.

It is only a moment after Alphonse gets his body back.

And it is wholly, totally, unforgiving.

A most momentous and gigantic wave crashes upon him, the resulting whirlpool devours him as _everything_ overwhelms him, overpowering as he _drowns_ -

- _his sight is at first a terrifying canvas of stark whiteness, a dull ache bubbling with his head as his eyes adjust to the light, the silhouettes in front of him indistinct  -_

_-his skin feels as though it peels off the flesh he and his brother had worked so hard for, as the air and wind bite into him at every inch, ruthless -_

_-he chokes, suffocating, the air he breathes noxious and icy cold as he feels it pierce his lungs, vibrating within him -_

_-his migraine grows, the smell of too many offending things a cacophony that makes him dizzy and faint-_

_-he gags, something foreign invading his mouth and he wishes to heave to expel it, until he realizes it is his saliva-_

_-something is put upon his body, and it is only later that he figures out it was a blanket to give his nude body some modesty and not a spiral of thorns that seek to flay him -_

_-his brother continues to support him, for which he is thankful, as he legs are dull, weak._ When he attempts to walk, it is although his legs are not connected at all. His limbs do not coordinate, rebelling against him as he cannot complete the simple task of putting one foot after the other. For a horrifying moment, through all the discord that strangles him and makes his mind unbearably distorted and foggy, he thinks he feels his legs actually dissipate from under him.

His heart beats. His blood flows. His skin feels. And it is _crushing him_.

For the first time in five years, Alphonse falls unconscious.

 

* * *

 

When he opens his eyelids, heavy and sluggish, he finds himself in what is a hospital room.

He does not realize where he is at first, of course, only that he lays upon something soft. He at first surmises that he is floating - weightless among clouds until he realizes what he feels beneath him is actually bed. The simple gown in which he wears is delicate against his skin, and he finds himself attempting to move himself slightly to feel it crease against him. The light prickling of the fabric against skin is so deceptively simple, so wonderfully modest that he feels all his skin tingling at every inch. The shudder that races through him is small, barely noticeable, but it rocks him to his very core.

When he looks down from the stark ceiling above, downwards to the rest himself, he sees his own chest rise and lower, his torso and below covered with the bed’s blanket, with his arms above the sheets, laying parallel of his body.

 _His body_ -

It may be predominantly covered with a sheet, but it is _there_. The rise of the sheets that indicate something is beneath it - _his body_ \- is perhaps the most extraordinary sight he has ever seen. His mind is still blurry and foggy, difficult to navigate through, but the undeniable view that he is attached to a body made of flesh makes him feel something intense and striking course through him. The feeling is so profoundly potent he feels himself shake.

He marvels as he sees the shift of his chest, shaky and weak, but _breathing_. He lets out a small choked gasp as he is awed by the sensation of air entering him, filling his lungs before he exhales. It is then that he realizes that something is foreign is in his mouth - actually foreign, not his saliva this time - but a tube that has itself going down his throat.

He blinks, feeling it lightly as he attempts to move his tongue, and through the haze that overclouds his mind with dizziness brought on by both exhaustion and bliss, he distantly registers that it for a ventilator to facilitate his breathing.

Worrying, certainly, and perhaps in any other context he would be dismayed by being a resident in what is clearly an intensive care unit, but he too overjoyed by the fact that _he is breathing_.

He wants nothing more than to open his mouth and take in a large gulp of air and feel it caress within him, to acknowledge that he is alive and _breathing_.

He attempts to, but he finds himself without energy to do so. Instead, he continues to lay still in his bed, his movement constricted to small shivers, and such a fact is what starts to have his own giddiness leave him as it is replaced by something more akin to a cold fear.

He wants to _move_ , to feel his bones and muscle act and maneuver, to see the vague evidence of tissue beneath his skin contort as he shifts his arms, he wants to see his toes wiggle, his knees bend, his body in motion and so undoubtedly _attached_ to him.

But he can’t - and within the recesses of his mind he knows it is because his body is so feeble and fragile, bones make their impressions through his skin which is deathly pale. He’s seen himself at the Gate, he knows that physically he looks like a _corpse_ , emaciated and frail and only being able to stand when his brother was a solid support.

But he wants, so desperately, to move himself. To know that his body responds fully to him, that his soul is truly reconnected with his own flesh. But his movements are restricted to silent shivers and shakes, barely a motion at all as all stamina is immediately sapped from him if he tries anything more complicated than the twitching of fingers.

He wants to scream, but what comes out is more of a silent gargled croak. Barely audible, even to his own ears, and it only serves to frustrate him more.

He settles for glaring steely at the blank ceiling once more, finding himself suddenly so unbearably faint. There’s a moment wherein he thinks to panic at the notion that he begins to feel so drained but then he comes to realize he is actually, simply, exhausted (and if for a second he legitimately mistakes the feeling for the sensation of his soul leaving his body, then that's a fact he keeps for himself).

He’s _tired_ , his eyelids are so heavy. His eyes feel like stones. He blinks - briefly finding difficulty opening them again - before he becomes distracted at something else.

His left arm feels different from his right, and when he turns his head slightly to see what is causing such a sensation, he sees its because through the window to his left, the sun is setting.

The view, the sky a wash of orange and pink, is not what keeps his attention - indeed he does not even pay it any mind - what does is the fact the light has filtered through the window and has engulfed part of his arm.

It’s - _warm_.

His skin feels _warm_ as it bathes under the sunlight, pleasant.

So indescribably _pleasant_.

He emits a small sound without realizing it - a small choked gasp - as he stares at his own limb twitch slightly as he attempts to move it.

He wants to go closer, wishes his bed was nearer to the window so he may sunbathe. The agreeable heat from the light is a damn gift from God that he wants to cherish and hold onto forever.

He wants to get closer, he wants to - but he is so, _so_ tired.

It grows steadily more impossible to keep his eyelids open, but that’s okay.

 _Bodies need sleep_ , he thinks. _Things that are alive need sleep_.

For the first time in five years, Alphonse falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

He’s terrified.

He’s _alone._

He’s at the Gate and he’s _alone_. And so deathly cold, the freezing stabbing into him viciously like a mauling, tearing the skin from his bones. The tornado of harsh nails is hammered into him at every inch of his being, sharp and excruciating. It envelopes him totally, filling him with an acute sense of horror.

Where is Edward?

“Brother - ?” he yells desperately out into the bleak emptiness of the void.

 

(“ _Alphonse!_ ” Ed yells, his voice cracking as he watches on in complete panic as his younger brother convulses in his bed. His movements are jerky - bordering on the lines of unnatural - and he rushes to Al’s side, practically knocks away the nurses present to establish himself near his brother.

Al’s voice is startlingly hoarse, and horrifyingly hopeless. When Ed gets a clearer view of his brother, his own breath is caught within his throat.

Al stares, wide-eyed but unfocused towards the ceiling. His gaunt face is in an expression of a silent scream, mouth gaping and trembling as every inch of Al shakes violently.

“ _Get him out of here!_ ” one of the nurses - doctor? Someone, he isn’t sure - screeches angrily at all present. He isn’t aware the command is for him until he finds hands gripping tightly onto his shoulder to usher him out.

“Get the fuck off -!” he finds himself screeching, twisting and fighting against their grasps, his eyes never leaving Al as his younger brother continues to heave and contort.  

When Al opens his mouth again, a loud shriek is emitted, and it stabs and twists itself directly into Ed’s gut.)

 

“Brother - _Brother!_ ” Alphonse continues to yell fruitlessly into the nothingness.

Where is Edward? Where is his brother? Why hadn’t he come to rescue him - why isn’t he here? He made a promise, he was going to help Alphonse get his body back, he was going to come _back_ \- he made a _promise_ -

“ _Edward!_ ” he yells with every ounce of strength he has, in some vain hope his brother will hear, that Ed would respond, that he’ll be _there_.

 _Where is Edward_ \- ?

A piercing feeling enters him, more scorching than the biting that has already been tearing into him. It’s more intense, more extreme, _blinding_ -

Alphonse looks down at his body for the first time, and sees that his skin is being stripped from his flesh by a myriad of tiny, scratching hands. The hands snake around his body, stinging and harsh, and soon the black of the appendages overtake the white of the void.

Red invades his vision where the paleness of his skin used to be, potent and horrific as his skin comes off in clumps and slides off with ease.

He has a belated realization that the ringing in his ears is his own screaming.

 

(“ _It hurts!_ ” Alphonse screams, and it tears Ed apart at every inch.

He needs to help - needs to do _anything_ \- he is nearly forced out the door when he wrestles the hands that grip him away and attempt to rush back inside.

“Alphonse!” he yells again, desperate and frantic, attempting to reach out towards his brother as Al wails upwards towards the ceiling as a troop of medical personnel flank around him, frenzied.

“ _Help me!_ ” Alphonse cries, with tears blanketing his cheeks, and Ed finds that his face is similar - wet and deformed into fear.

“ _Brother - help me, please!_ ” Alphonse’s words make every part of him shatter into pieces, “ _Edward!_ ”

He wants to forcefully shove aside those that flank his brother so he can reassure Alphonse that he’s there, but an unforgiving clasp is done at his collar and nearly chokes him as he is dragged outside.

It is only when he is literally _thrown_ out the room and landed on the hard tile that he realizes he was tossed out by Armstrong.

Hawkeye slams the door shut, but Ed still hears his brother’s sobbing, and he wants to scream.)

 

* * *

 

When he wakes again, he hears voices from outside the door.

“ _-he’ll be bedridden for as long as his body needs to restore tissue and have enough strength for him to be able to stand on his own. It can take anywhere from two weeks to two months, and considering his condition, I’m leaning on the latter.”_

He does not recognize the voice - a woman, a doctor? Perhaps. Her words are careful, but her tone firm. He has the itching suspicion it's a matra she has had to explain before.

He shifts his hands, feeling the texture of the blanket beneath him and smiles to himself. It’s a satisfying, clean feeling of even thread, he thinks he could caress it forever.

The woman continues, “ _he’ll have to stay on broth and liquids for a while before he can be given any sort of solid food_.”

‘ _Stay_ ’?

Has he already been given treatment? Alphonse feels his brows begin to crease - he doesn’t remember having drunk any broth or liquids. When he attempts to think of how long he’s been here, he thinks it’s been a day, two at tops. He’s only just now awoken from a sleep, surely he hasn’t been here for much longer - ?

“ _Hopefully he’ll be coherent for his next meal. His delirium should lessen as treatment progresses and is given enough nutrition and hydration for him to level out his metabolism. Once he is totally aware of himself and his surroundings, that is when you can visit and speak with him, Mr. Elric. Until then you have to realize that your brother’s cognitive and physical state are not anywhere near peak condition.”_

The room is suddenly very, very cold.

How long -

How long has he _been here_?

The ceiling is a cruel blankness as he stares at it, as if it could hold the answers he seeks. Trying to dig into the recesses of his mind yields no further memories from his initial awakening - was it even the first time he woke up? Or only the first time he was _coherent_?

“ _He’s not exactly a common case_.” she continues, more slowly.

But - ‘Mr. Elric’ _Edward’s outside the door_.

He feels, rather than hears, the small, pathetic groan he makes as he attempts to grab those outside’s attention - specifically _Ed’s_ \- he feels his lower lip tremble, only now noticing the tube is no longer there. He needs to see his brother. Needs to show him he has his body, needs to show him their journey is finally at an end, needs to show it was a wonderful success, needs to say _thank you thank you thank you_ -

“ _What do you mean?_ ”

Ed’s voice - well, _growl_ \- makes him want to cry. He had never thought in any number of years that his brother’s stupid voice could be something so sorely… _missed_. It certainly isn’t a serenade that he could calmly fall asleep to, but it is a most welcoming comfort.

The doctor’s voice replies, _“you’ve explained that his soul’s been disconnected from his body for five years, correct?_ ”

“ _Yeah?_ ”

“ _Not exactly something that happens everyday. We don’t really have a frame of reference for what we’re dealing with._ ”

“ _You’re a doctor - figure it out._ ” Ed’s frustration is stabbing.

A heavy sigh is sound. Alphonse can picture the doctor rubbing her face.

 _“I know that this is difficult -”_ _  
_

_“So what the fuck is it that you’re saying, that he -_ ” his brother breaks himself off, and Alphonse assumes he’s angrily gesturing vaguely as he attempts to think of words that are comprehensible.

“ _He may - still be disconnected, in a sense._ ” The doctor says.

There’s a tense silence. Before the doctor speaks again, “ _you remember when we explained ‘refeeding syndrome’ to you?_ ”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Ed says, seemingly suddenly very, very tired, “ _it’s why Al can’t eat solids yet. That he has to drink water mixed with sugar slowly before anything else._ ”

“ _Precisely. Victims of starvation and severe malnutrition cannot receive a sudden intake of food and liquids after their bodies have experienced a long period of not doing so. Individuals that are starved have depleted reserves of key minerals that are required to synthesize energy, so a sudden intake of food creates a severe disturbance as they do not have the proper -”_ _  
_

_“‘They don’t have enough phosphorus, magnesium and potassium reserves to properly digest and can result in cardiac arrest’_ _yes I_ know this.” Ed interrupts, and Alphonse nearly huffs at how rude he is.

Ed continues, “ _but you’re all treating him for that. You said it yourself, he’s only been given broth and liquids the entire time he’s been here._ ” Ed’s tone suddenly becomes more dangerous, “ _did you make a mistake -_ ”

“ _Edward._ ” Alphonse blinks, how long had Hawkeye been there? Her tone is sharp.

Ed gives not so much as a sigh, but more of a growl.

The doctor begins again, “ _I assure you, his reinstitution of nutrition is going as smoothly as it can. And while overtime him regaining his strength should help with his_ \- episodes -”

Alphonse doesn’t like how she says that - slow, _unsure_.

“ _\- there may another underlying complication. His body was without a soul for five years, and now, suddenly it’s back inhabiting it._ ”

The silence is heavy, uncomfortably so.

Ed speaks, “ _what, some fucking metaphysical example of refeeding?_ ”

“ _Perhaps -”_

 _“It’s not like we can reintroduce his soul_ slowly -”

Ed’s voice raises into something wholly bitter and indignant before Hawkeye cuts him off again with another sharp, louder “ _Edward._ ” Her tone has a more deepened hint of warning, but also an underlying tiredness.

There’s heavy breathing beyond the door, and Alphonse surmises its Ed attempting to calm himself.

“ _What happens now?_ ” Ed asks.

“ _Well, Mr. Elric, you yourself should return to your own room-_ ”

“ _I’m staying._ ”

“ _Mr. Elric -_ ” (oh, this is definitely a conversation they’ve had before).

Ed cuts the doctor off again, “ _I’m staying here. I don’t care for how long. I’m_ not _leaving my brother._ ”

The feeling that swells within him is palpable it almost verges on aching. It is a sudden, radiating affection that is so startling piercing he once more feels himself make a choked groan. He wants to see his brother. He _needs_ to.

“ _I made him a promise. I’m staying with him._ ”

Alphonse is absolutely certain, at that moment, that mere words do have a tangible healing affect. For in the instant those words leave his brother, he feels himself go gooey with reprieve. He doesn’t register - nor care - that his eyes begin to get wet, blurring his vision slightly, as he feels himself practically float at his brother’s words.

The doctor outside sighs, “ _are you planning to camp outside his room again then, Mr. Elric?_ ” she asks dryly.

Of course Ed would. He wants to laugh at the mental image of his brother slumped in some hard uncomfortable chair - or face down on the floor snoring - stubbornly waiting outside. Instead of a laugh, however, what comes out is more comparable to a small gravelly sigh.

The voices outside become indistinct, and he finds himself having difficulty concentrating to discern them. He thinks Hawkeye is telling Ed his own wounds need to heal, but he isn’t sure.

Oh - he’s tired again. His eyelids are heavy once more. Were they always heavy?

It’s okay. Ed is staying with him. His brother is here.

He made him a promise.

Alphonse slips asleep again seamlessly.

 

* * *

 

“How unfortunate.”

Alphonse blinks. He finds himself sitting across the vague silhouette of Truth, within the desolate white domain of the void.

He wants to speak - briefly having his voice lost to him, having nothing leave him as he tries to open his mouth - before something does eventually leave him, “what’s going on?”

His voice is small, discordant. He doesn’t like it.

“You’ve experienced this before,” Truth says, blankly, and Alphonse still reels when he hears his own voice coming out of the being, “through the eyes of what you sought to bring back.”

The dread that penetrates through him is a slow, painful impalement. Is he shaking? He isn’t even entirely sure, he keeps his gaze fixed on the vacant figure in front of him.

He remembers - the mangled corpse, the disgusting wretch, something that shouldn’t be alive or moving. He remembers his own sight, seeing through the openings of that thing’s vision, and he remembers seeing his brother, bloodied and crying.

The disfigured heap of flesh had rejected his own soul - but, Alphonse has his _original body_ back, now. His body that is his soul originating home. How could it - why would it reject - ?

“But it’s my body,” he says, his voice is shakey, desperate.

“Indeed.” Truth says, the beginning of its ghastly grin appearing, “that is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“But-”

“You have your body back. You and your brother took it through the Gate.” its grin is almost mocking.

“But -” Alphonse chokes, then why is he back here? It doesn’t make sense, if he has his body back then why -?

It is then he looks down on himself, to ask why he and his body is back here, only to see nothing is below him.

Instead, what greets him is a similar visage to Truth itself - the vague outlining of a silhouette, bordered by the splattering of inkinesss that contrasts his form that reminds him of crawling insects.

“You have your body back.” Truth repeats, making Alphonse whip his gaze back towards the being. Its grin is wider, now. “Your journey is at an end. You’ve got what you wanted.”

“I - This isn’t -”

“You knew the risks,” it drawls, its voice a sickeningly sweet, “and now you have your body back. You’ve got what you came for, and if your body and soul decide to be incompatible after so long being separated, then that’s an unfortunate side effect. But you’ve got your body _back._ ”

He feels so _empty_. The hollowness that makes his being makes him feel as though he is sinking beneath water. The thing’s steady repetition reminding Alphonse he has his body back is an unkind mantra that serves to reestablish that sometimes - things don’t always go according to plan.

“Am I dead?” he asks, his voice a mere whisper.

Truth tilts its head, its grin never leaving it, “currently, yes.”

The despair that envelopes him is entirely overpowering, and he finds himself letting out a strangled wail at the confirmation.

 _This can’t be happening_ , he thinks, desperately, through the distortion of his overclouded mind. Has he fallen to his knees? He doesn’t even have any knees to fall to, but he feels himself plummet like a stone.

“ _Why?_ ” he asks, his voice broken with phantom tears - he already knows the answer, his body was too weak, in every aspect, too unsteady and unable to rehouse his soul - and now he’s _dead_ and he couldn’t say goodbye to _Ed_ -

“Because your heart's stopped.” Truth says, so disgustingly casual it brings Alphonse momentarily out of whirling tar that seeks to consume him, “you’ve done so twice already. We’ve had this conversation twice already. Whether or not you’ll stay dead this time, is something we’ll have to see.”

Can time stop where time doesn’t exist? In the moment, if feels so.

Its nauseatingly familiar how his breath seems to lodge itself in his throat despite, currently, not having a physical throat to have such happen.

“You’ll die in the body that you and your brother took through the Gate,” Truth hums, “but perhaps just not yet.”

His words are lost to him, his ability of speech completely alien to him in the moment.

Suddenly - there’s voices. Too many of them. They come from all around him, loud and frantic, overlayed on one another, echoing and ruthless and too chaotic to make out the words. Alphonse whips his head around himself, but he sees no one, only the emptiness of the void, unoccupied as it always is.

“You’re being revived.” Truth says, almost a sigh, its smile is still present “perhaps the next time we meet, it won’t be so soon.”

 

* * *

 

The air he breathes in feels like a punch that caves in his chest.

He arches, feeling as though his insides freeze into ice, but in realize his body is too warm, the air is merely a startling contrast.

He’s drenched, sticky and inherently uncomfortable. He thinks someone has poured a bucket of water on him, but it is his own sweat that clings onto him.

He cannot control himself as he trembles at every inch, his chest heaves upwards and downwards as he gapes in air. His throat is tight, and it stings to take in oxygen.

He’s dizzy, and everything feels fuzzy. His eyesight is blurred, the forms in his vision ambiguous at best. His hearing is muffled, as if the voices he distantly hears are happening two rooms over. The sounds are loud, but he cannot properly make anything out.

It feels as though it takes years, but progressively the thorns within his chest subside. His desperate heaving is likewise, slowly evening out into something more manageable. His body still trembles, but it no longer feels as though he is in the midst of a tornado.

He becomes increasingly aware that there are hands on him, upon his shoulders and near their wrists. He thinks they were tight before, to keep him still, but now they are light and careful. His vision slowly stabilizes, and the ceiling tiles become more clear.

For a moment he cannot tell whether or not the stark silence within the room - punctuated only by his own guttural gasps - is because of his faulty hearing or if because the room has actually become quiet except for him.

His head feels as though its within a vice, and he groans, squeezing his eyes shut - he wants to sleep again.

“Alphonse,” someone calls to him, unfamiliar, too close and his first reaction is to flinch as he re-opens his eyes to look at the owner of the voice.

Those that surround him, he does not recognize. Their faces nearly merge together into an amorphous blob as his head swims, but he is able to discern at least five individuals in the room with him.

Four flank each side, two on the left and two on the right, and another is further towards the door. He’s sure, if his mind was more able and not on the verge of imitating static, that he would be able to ascertain whose each medical role was.

As it stands, his head feels like its weighted down.

“Alphonse,” the voice says again, gentler, and he finds it belongs to a woman, and then he realizes he recognizes the voice as the doctor that has spoken with his brother before.

 _Brother_ -

It feels as though it’s been an eternity since he’s seen him. Through the thick fog that blankets his mind, he is able to realize that he should - _needs to_ \- ask where his brother is.

His tongue, however, is a heavy stone that does not cooperate, and what little he is able to accomplish is a pathetic croak with his jerky jaw movements.

Everything _hurts_ \- but he _needs_ to see Edward.

“Can you hear me?” the doctor asks, reassuringly rubbing his shoulder. Alphonse feels the other hands slip off him, and the other participants in the room move away to give the two of them room. They mutter among themselves, but Alphonse is too exhausted to even try to listen in.

He tries to speak again, “ _Ed -_ ” he manages, his voice strained and low.

“You’re brother’s fine,” the doctor says, “but you need rest, Alphonse.”

Rest, yes, he knows he does, but his need to see his brother outweighs it in necessity.

He needs to tell them such, “need to - see - brother,” he inwardly cringes, finding the words inefficiently travel from his mind to his mouth.

“And you will,” she says, voice soft, “but your body is tired. You’ve been through a great deal. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He _can_ \- but he also needs to _see Ed_ -

“Do you understand, Alphonse?”

He nods, its small and jerky but it seems to please not only the doctor, but everyone else in the room. It’s as though, collectively, they heave as sigh of relief.

“Can you say that?” she asks, and despite her voice being soothing it starts to frustrate him. He needs to see Ed, “can you say you understand me?”

“Yes,” he murmurs, his eyelids are becoming increasingly difficult to keep open, “I... understand.”

“Just a small nap. I promise Edward will be here when you wake.”

He nods once more, his eyelids close themselves as it becomes impossible to keep them lifted.

“ _Promise,_ ” he slurs, before he feels himself droop, and blackness overtakes him.

 


	2. During Twilight Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay well, this fic is going to be longer than i expected lol. this thing (both the fic and this chapter) went in a completely different direction than i had originally thought, but i guess that's what happens you plan nothing out and just write with reckless abandon (・_・ヾ

He awakens to his head being crushed.

Not physically, but perhaps it would be a mercy it such were actually happening. The migraine is relentless in its cruelty.

He makes a noise without meaning to, a small groan, as he shifts his head upon the pillow.

The pillow offers a small comfort, a slight reprieve in its softness, but he quickly finds that not moving is the better option. His head feels tighter with every movement, so he settles quickly for not moving at all.

His eyes are still closed, eyelids clamped shut and he thinks it would be better to fall asleep again. His exhaustion still weighs him down like a rock.

But there’s movement in the room with him, and he hears footsteps walk to the side of his bed before it stops.

“Alphonse?” It's the doctor.

His eyelids open, slowly, and he squints up at her.

He’s able to finally take a decent look at her and take stock in her appearance - greying hair that is tied to a neat bun behind her head, tall, wrinkles line her features, impeccably neat doctor’s scrubs. He guesses she’s in her late fifties.

She wears a small smile, “how are you feeling?”

Speech is a tricky thing - he feels as though every time he has attempted to speak his vocals are on a delayed start up. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

The doctor’s brows pinch for a moment, and he tries again: “hello,” he croaks.

Alright, not an answer to her question, but at least his tongue and voice box do indeed seem to be working. But greetings are certainly in order regardless, he may feel like someone has put his head through a woodchipper, but at the very least he still has retained his manners.

Perhaps it's the same thought that goes through the doctor’s mind as well, as she seems somewhat pleased by the fact he has actually responded in some way.

“Afternoon, Alphonse,” she says, at least he now knows the time of day. He wonders how long he’s been asleep. Hopefully he wasn’t in a coma. “My name is Dr. Warren, are you feeling any better?”

A good question. He isn’t even entirely sure himself. His head throbs and every part of his body has a dull ache, he feels like he could physically shatter apart like a dropped mug.

But at the very least, he isn’t at the Gate.

“Yeah,” he says, truthfully, “got a headache, though.”

Almost a sentence, he feels oddly proud of himself.

Dr. Warren seems likewise pleased - perhaps by the fact he has actually proven he could answer a question - and she smiles down at him, warmly.

“Glad to hear it,” she says, “about feeling better. I’m sure you could go without your headache.”

He hums at her, attempting to keep movement of his head at a minimum.

“Would you like something for it?” she asks.

He would, certainly, but at the moment he’d much rather see another blond haired brat.

“Can I see Ed?” he asks, and for some reason, her smile seems to drop. “I need to talk to my brother.”

He must look particularly pathetic, because her expression adopts something more pitying. He doesn’t have the time - nor energy, really - to be insulted or feel anything about it, because she reponds, “of course.”

He feels himself breaking into a grin, and before he can properly think better about it, he tries to lift himself into a straighter sitting position, and his head nearly explodes by the movement.

He grunts, and he’s glad whatever sound he makes is light, because it doesn’t seem to catch the attention of Dr. Warren as she turns towards the door. He’s sure she’s nice, but he doesn’t want her to fret over him when he could be seeing his brother.

She exits the room, and he’s already slumped back into the bed in his original position. It seems to soothe the dreadful beast that has his head in its iron clasp, because the pressure lessens, slightly.

Dr. Warren is literally only gone for what seems to be half second - too short for Alphonse to even begin to realize his own bubbling excitement growing within him - before the door opens again.

His brother’s entrance isn’t as dramatic he thought it would, and Alphonse is thankful Ed chose a more quiet form of arriving - because if he had barged in he’s sure the noise would have upsetted his head further.

His brother holds a glass of water as he walks in and closes the door behind him by kicking it with his foot lightly. The sight of his brother already made him feel as if all tension within his body simutasouly relaxed, but the sight of the water is as if the Holy Grail was given to him personally. If by some chance the universe has decided to turn on him and the water isn’t actually meant for him, he’ll have to quickly relearn the art of puppy-dog-eyes to convince his brother to give him a sip (shouldn’t be too hard, he surmises).

Ed gives him a crooked smile, his eyes are soft. “Hey, dweeb,” he says. His hair is slightly frayed and there are bags beneath his eyes, he looks almost as bad as Alphonse feels.

Alphonse snorts in response, and Ed puts the glass of water on the desk the flanks Al’s bed - was that always there? - and drags a seat from another part of the room to sit next to Alphonse - was the chair always there too?

He’d almost be worried at his apparent lack of environmental awareness, but as it stands, his brother is finally in the room with him since however long he’s been here, so everything is going to be fine.

“Hey,” Alphonse wheezes, his voice shallow and gravelly, and it gives him the impression he’s just smoked a pack of cigarettes.

“You sound awful,” Ed says, and while he’s right, Alphonse is also distinctly offended regardless. Ed doesn’t sound particularly better - he sounds haggard and worn.

“Geez,” Alphonse manages, “is that any way to talk to your brother?”

“It’s the only way to talk to my brother.” Ed responds, with that stupid smirk.

Alphonse wants to laugh, but the sound he makes sounds more like a choking dolphin.

“C’mon,” Ed says, picking up the glass of water, “you should drink, it’ll help you not sound like a dying cat.”

Alphonse wants to tell Ed to shut up, but his words dissipate before they’re even in conception, as Ed puts one hand lightly beneath Al’s chin and brings the glass to his lips.

Ed’s face is a mask of such serious concentration it’s almost comical, Alphonse would make a comment to mock him but the cold prickling of the water meeting his lips is too heavenly to even try to ignore.

When Ed tips the glass slightly and Alphonse is able to properly drink, the water that enters his mouth makes him jolt with the sudden sensation of what feels like ice in his mouth. The suddenness makes his _teeth_ hurt, and he finds himself screwing his eyes shut as his involuntarily splutters.

Ed immediately withdraws the glass, and when Alphonse is able to open his eyes he sees his brother wear an expression of concern. Alphonse himself feels a sudden spike of despair - because he doesn’t want his brother to leave and get Dr. Warren or whoever - he hasn’t seen his brother in however long, he doesn’t want Ed to leave over Al’s throat being a disagreeable dunce.

Alphonse lifts an arm - too focused on the fact he needs to say something to ensure his brother doesn’t leave to actually realize he is able to move his arm, albeit shakingly, to his face - trembling fingers wipe at his wet mouth. His words are cut off when coughs, and his migraine becomes blistering.

He hears Ed put the glass back on the table, and his brother steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, his other hand placing itself flatley on Alphonse’s chest.

His coughing continues, much to his own frustration, at the back of his mind he wonders if he’d actually forgotten the rule of not breathing while drinking water - he hopes that isn’t actually the case, mostly because he knows Ed would never let _that_ down.

But before he can properly even entertain the thought of his embarrassing fumble, he finds himself short on air altogether.

It’s as though suddenly he _is_ physically beneath water, because his lungs start to _burn_. It’s as though needles stab his insides, the breath he attempts to desperately heave in is cruelly dangled beyond his grasp. He shakes, and his own hearing becomes fuzzy - Ed’s voice is distant, and he can’t tell if it’s because Ed has decided to remove himself or not, but there are still hands on his shoulders (or at least something is, his mind is too frenzied to even try to recognize what it is at the current moment).

God, his head is about to _fucking explode_ -

_Pop!_

It’s as though the pressure that constricted him has finally found its breaking point, and has released its vicious hold upon him. His throat is no longer clamped, and air rushes back into him - it hurts, as if his lungs expand too far their limit, but at least it isn’t suffocating.

He opens his eyes to black spots eventually disappearing from his vision, and he blinks to his brother’s face over him, worried and frightened.

He blinks, had thought the weight of someone’s hands on his shoulders to belong to a doctor, but his brother’s an entirely welcoming sight.

“Edward,” he says, and he thinks he could pass of a convincing impression of a toad with such a voice.

“You with me, Al?” Ed says, and it’s perplexing. His brother’s brows are knitted as he stares anxiously down at his younger brother.

“Y-yeah?” Alphonse responds, his mind is cloudy, and he could do with a nap.

“Right,” Ed says, licking his lips, slowly seating himself into the chair next to the bed - has that always been there? - while awkwardly patting at Alphonse’s chest.

Alphonse’s breathing steadies himself, and it feels as though his head isn’t connected to his body, but he’s just glad Ed’s here with him.

“You feeling alright?” Ed says, his voice oddly careful.

“Yeah,” Alphonse replies again, “jus- a lil’ tired.” Now he thinks he could make a convincing impression of a toddler.

The air is far too oddly tense for his liking - he may have awoken to a coughing fit, but Ed’s guarded expression makes him feel like he’s being viewed under a microscope. He doesn’t like it.

Alphonse attempts to diffuse the situation, as he points at Ed’s chair, “you-you sleep in that?” he asks, giving a small smile, but it falters slightly as Ed seems even more confused.

Alphonse continues before he can rightly stop himself, “really wanted your ugly mug to be the first thing I see when I woke up, huh?”

His joke has the opposite intended result, he expects Ed to mock him back but instead he simply stares, seemingly even _more_ baffled.

His brother opens his mouth, before closing it, before he slumps laboriously into his chair.

“Yeah,” Ed says, heavily and without any hint of humour. He almost sounds defeated - he looks the part too. “Been sleeping here all night waiting for you to wake.”

Ed lifts his head to smile weakly at Alphonse, and he wants to smile back, but Ed’s almost _restricted_ behaviour gives him the feeling like someone has died. He hopes no one has died.

“Is something wrong?” Alphonse asks.

“‘Course not,” Ed says, and Alphonse is unconvinced, “been worried about you, is all.”

Well, now Alphonse feels guilty.

“Wanna make sure you're alright.” Ed mutters, before he straightens himself in his chair, “How's your body feel?”

Alphonse thinks on it, he thinks his head could pass off for a balloon that's tied to his body, “it feels…” he begins, mulling over words that could help describe himself, “...floaty.” He settles on.

Ed quirks a brow, “is that good?”

“Could be worse.” Alphonse responds - its true.

“It's weird.” Alphonse continues, sighing. He averts his gaze, downwards to his body. He lifts an arm slightly and flexes his hand. He fixates on the movement of his knuckles, becoming hills in his skin when he makes a fist and becoming flattened when his fingers relax, “not bad, but…” He sighs, suddenly disappointed, ”I think I need time to get used to it again.”

He’s - hesitant, to look back at Ed’s face. So he continues to look down at his body that is still covered with a blanket. He has wasted so much of his brother’s life to get this body back, only for him to now have to _get used it_. He feels as though he’s being an ungrateful ingrate, and shame curls itself within him. Edward deserves better than that.

“Been a while since you've had it,” Ed says, bringing Alphonse’s gaze back to his brother, who shrugs, nonchalantly, “so that's understandable.”

Ed says that as if his brother hadn’t had to give up much of his childhood for Alphonse’s sake, and it makes the shame within him burn more.

“ _if your body and soul decide to be incompatible after so long being separated, then that’s an unfortunate side effect._ ” Truth’s words rattles within him, his dread a forming noose.

The air between them has become unfortunately somber, it’s uncomfortable and Alphonse doesn’t like it nor want it.

Alphonse shakes himself, “you get taller, brother?”

Ed looks comically offended, and it’s territory he wholly prefers, “I was always tall.”

Alphonse smiles, “did they swap the definitions of tall and short when I wasn't looking?”

Ed scoffs, folding his arms defensively, “you're lucky you're so frail, or else I'd hit you, ass.”

“Wow,” Alphonse says, “I just got this body back and you want to ruin it.”

“That's why you should be nicer to your brother, your favourite sibling.”

“You're my only sibling.”

“Damn,” Ed says, “I’ll tell Winry you’ve disowned her.”

“You know what I meant!”

Ed waves him off with a flippant wave.

Alphonse sniggers, and decides to continue to antagonize his brother, “Well, I think I'm taller"

“When you can stand, then we’ll see, idiot.” Ed snorts.

Alphonse giggles, and wants to continue before something catches his eye.

A glass of water, on a desk he hadn't noticed. He blinks, has that always been there?

He points to it, getting Ed to look at it as well, “that for me?”

Ed gives him an odd look, “yeah.”

“Must be stale now,” Alphonse wrinkles his nose, “from last night?”

Ed shifts in his seat, “you should drink.” He goes to take the glass and looks at it with an oddly pensive expression.

Alphonse wants to scoff, water that’s been out for the entire night must be stagnant by now and the opposite of refreshing, but Ed’s mind seems to be made up as he brings the glass to Alphonse’s lips.

The water is - surprisingly cool. Not lukewarm at room temperature, but rather a pleasant icy cold.

It’s stimulating once in his mouth, and prickling when he swallows. He’s only allowed one gulp before his brother retracts it, watching him with such stern concentration it borders on ridiculous.

He subconsciously brings a hand towards his throat as he feels the water cascade downwards, and the actions seems to put Ed on edge. Ed almost seems to brace himself for something - does he think his younger brother is choking? - before his tension visibly relaxes as Alphonse simply marvels at the sensation of the cool water pour within him.

There’s silence between them, Ed tilts his head with a brow raised as he looks at his brother, who moves his hand downwards from his throat to his stomach as he follows the water’s movements.

“Feels…” Alphonse begins, and distantly he’s embarrassed how awestruck he is by _drinking water_ , but the feeling is tingling and both foreign and familiar, making his skin prickle, “... good.”

Ed snorts, “want more?”

“ _Yes._ ”

The subsequent sips go much the same way, Ed facilitates by tipping the glass to his brother’s lips, and Alphonse finds himself giddy at the feeling of the liquid pouring into him.

When the glass is nearly empty, the door opens again, and an aging woman with a knee-length white coat walks in. She is holding another glass of water.

“Alphonse,” she greets - its the doctor, Alphonse vaguely recognizes her voice - she smiles at him, “I brought you some pills that should help with your headache.”

He blinks at her. He steals a quick glance to his brother and then back to the doctor as she walks closer.

“Would like to drink it now?” she asks, standing next to Ed, and Alphonse feels his brow crease.

“I don’t have a headache?” he says, slowly. He feels as though he’s been left out of something. His head feels… flimsy, but no headache. He’s not sure why or how she got the idea he had a headache in the first place - in fact, he’s pretty sure it’s the first time he’s met the woman. _Pretty sure_ , but he doesn’t even know how long he’s been in this bed.

Her lips become pursed, and she shares _a look_ with Ed, and it’s like they share a full silent conversation. Alphonse looks between the two, and he progressively begins to feel even more lost on what’s happening.

“What?” he asks, prompting the two to look back at him.

Ed waves him off, “don’t worry about it,” well now he’s definitely going to be worrying about it, “just - just get some rest, I’ll tell you when you wake up.”

Ed almost looks like the sentence physically pains him, and he’d joke and ask if his brother is constipated but there’s something about his tone that puts Alphonse at edge.

He wants to continue to ask, interrogate his brother and figure out what’s wrong, but he is still tired. His head is still uncomfortably floaty, and, well, Ed looks like he could do with some sleep too.

“Only if you sleep too,” Alphonse says, “you look like garbage.”

Ed lets out a soft laugh, before he rubs his face and slumps in his chair, “you’re not so much of a looker yourself, twerp,” he mutters, “sleep in your bed and I’ll sleep in this shitty chair.”

The doctor hums in disapproval, but she seems to understand attempting to argue with Ed is a futile effort (they've probably argued before, Alphonse thinks). Alphonse doesn’t really care much to pay her any attention, he’s too busy attempting to make himself comfortable to go to sleep.

“I’ll leave you two to it, then,” the doctor says, and he hears, rather than sees, her turn to leave the room, “I hope you both have a good rest.”

And with that, Alphonse is able to slip himself into sleep, the last thing he sees is Ed looking at him carefully, jaw clenched, and the last thing he hears is Ed’s laboured sigh.

 

* * *

 

When he reawakens, he’s miraculously awake before Ed.

But he guesses that shouldn’t be surprising, considering the room is bathed in an inky darkness. His eyes need to readjust, and when he looks out the window, he sees slices of moonlight entering, helping to illuminate parts of the room.

He turns to view his brother, who is - true to his words - slumped rather uncomfortably looking in his chair from their previous meeting. His head leans over his shoulder, and Alphonse knows his brother’s neck is going to hurt when wakes.

He snorts, because he knows Ed is going to complain about it, and he thinks to try to go back to sleep but then he sees his brother shift.

Ed emits a small groan, rolling his shoulders as he brings a hand to massage his neck. Perhaps a God does exist, Alphonse muses, because the syncing in their rousing awake is nothing short of a miracle.

“Shit,” he mutters, huffing in annoyance as he stretches his neck, “fuckin’ chair.”

Alphonse giggles, and he thinks Ed must give himself whiplash with how quick he darts his head to look at him.

“Did I wake you?” Alphonse asks, a little sheepish.

Ed looks at him for a moment, and Alphonse guesses his own eyes need to adjust. “Nah." he says, slowly, attempting to relax into the chair again.

Ed stares at him for a weird moment. He looks as though he’s expecting something.

“What?” Alphonse asks.

“You feel alright?” Ed asks.

Alphonse could ask Ed the same thing, with how his brother is staring at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Feel... fine,” Alphonse says, his brows furrowing.

“Do you…” Ed says, curiously careful, “ - do you remember anything from yesterday?”

Alphonse blinks, “yeah, we spoke -?”

Well, that seems to wake Ed up in a nanosecond, because he immediately leans forward so much he braces himself on the rim of the bed.

“You remember?” Ed says, hurried and desperate, and Alphonse wonders when the world will start to make sense again, “everything from before you went to sleep, you remember?”

“Uh -” Alphonse stutters, taken aback from his brother’s urgency, “y-yeah? You gave me water and we spoke for a bit.” Ed looks like strained, like he’s about to break at any moment.

“Why wouldn’t I remember?” Alphonse asks, quietly, this whole exchange makes him feel he’s missed something extremely crucial.  

Ed barks out a humourless laugh, it’s almost hysterical, he leans back into his chair bonelessly and starts rubbing both hands on his face before surfing into his hair.

When Ed looks back at him, he can’t tell if its the lighting of the room playing tricks on his vision that makes it look like Ed’s eyes are wet, or if it’s actually so.

“Because you’ve been fucked up ever since we walked out the Gate,” Ed says, and it makes the room colder than it already is, “and you never remembered anything after you went to sleep. You’d always _forget._ ”

Alphonse wants to speak, but words are lost to him as his brother’s words slowly make themselves comprehensible to him.

Its - alarming, to say the least. Alphonse finds himself trembling slightly as he feels dread slowly caress him, a thumping in his chest indicating his heart quickening. Ed’s words are spoken like they give him discomfort - they certainly make Alphonse’s skin prickle uncomfortably.

When Alphonse finds his voice, it shakes, “how long have I been here?”

Ed sighs deeply, “three weeks.”

The air is almost _constricting_ , heavy and damning. It’s as though time completely stops, and the two are stuck in suspension as Alphonse eyes widen at the answer.

He had - he had thought he was here for upwards _nearing_ a week, _at most_. _Not three_.

The sudden realization that he has lost so much time, only remembering vague snippets, hits him like a brick. It’s as painful as it would be if a brick had physically hit him.

“Oh.” is all Alphonse is able to get out, and he looks down at himself. With the moon’s light, he is able to see that his nails have been cut and groomed to a more reasonable length. His arms, from what he can see, appear to have more muscle definition to them. Not enough that he no longer looks emaciated, but fuller than he remembers. It’s an odd realization, to see that time has passed with how his body has been taken care of by others, he feels distinctly numb at it. When he moves his head on his pillow, he feels his hair - still long, too long for his tastes, but feeling less like a rat’s nest.

He looks back up to his brother, he sees Ed watching him with tired eyes, leaning on his elbows that are planted on his knees.

“I’d always forget, huh?” Alphonse asks, quiet. He isn’t sure he’s exactly ready to hear his brother’s side of his admission to the hospital, but at the same time he knows he needs to hear it. And he’d rather hear it from Ed than from a gaggle of doctors.

Ed nods, the movements minute, “when you went to sleep. And then when you’d wake again, you’d act like it was the first time we spoke since the Promised Day.”

Alphonse swallows, looking at his brother’s hollow expression. He doesn’t want to think about being in his brother’s shoes, the feeling makes him queasy.

Ed continues, with a faraway expression on his face - the lighting of the room accent his features, highlighting the bags beneath his eyes, and for a moment, Ed looks far older than he is - “and you’d have these fucking awful fits.”

Alphonse’s skin crawls, like insects are creeping upon him, and he shifts at the feeling. He knows he should be thankful he doesn’t seem to remember in depth of his - _episodes_ \- but subconsciously he reacts regardless. He knows his fits were never pleasant, even if he can’t recall them.

Ed goes on, and his speech makes it sound he’s confessing something that lifts a weight off his shoulders, “when you went to sleep - it was almost like - you were having a seizure.” Ed rubs his face, “and at first - that’s what we thought. You’d shake like you were having one, sometimes you’d drool.” Ed folds his arms and rubs up his upper arms, making himself look uncharacteristically smaller, more vulnerable. He stares at his feet.

“Then you’d start screaming.” He murmurs, “like something was killing you.”

There’s silence between the two for a moment, and the air is suffocating. Alphonse doesn’t know how to respond - so he keeps silent, and Ed takes it as a prompt to continue.

“You’d - you’d thrash and scream, and there was nothing anyone could - “ he splutters, his frame shaking as a hand grips into his hair. And when Ed looks up to meet his brother’s gaze, Alphonse can see clearly along with his pained expression, Ed’s eyes definitely have tears in them.

“There was nothing _I_ could do,” he sounds _crushed_ , hopeless, as he slumps into the chair. His voice cracks, and he confesses it as if he were admitting to a murder.

Alphonse sees Ed swallow, his lip trembling, “you’d always scream for _me_. Everytime, you’d always ask for -” he’s near his breaking point, Alphonse can tell he’s a hair away from crying - Alphonse feels his own eyes are wet as well.

“You’d always cry for _me_ to help you,” Ed manages through shakey words, “that - that it was hurting you. You’d scream for me to help but I -” he chokes, “ - I couldn’t _do_ anything.”

Ed pinches the bridge of his nose, attempting to level himself sharp intakes of air through his nose. Alphonse wants to say something, _anything_ , to console his brother, but words are stuck in his throat like a stone. His throat is tight, constricting.

“Sometimes it’d last for hours,” Ed says, flatly, like all the energy’s been sapped out of him (it has), “sometimes minutes. But every time, you’d just stop and pass out. Then when you’d wake again, it was like nothing had happened - and you wouldn’t remember anything.”

Ed rubs a stray tear from his cheek with a hand, “it was a fucking _cycle_. You’d wake up, we’d talk, you’d fall asleep and then - throw a fit, pass out, and then you wouldn’t remember anything. Every time you went to sleep, you’d wake up screaming.”

Ed looks shell shocked, “you were like that for three fucking weeks.” He says, “sometimes you’d just fucking - forget _while_ we talked. You’d get this dumb look in your face and when you snapped out of it, you’d act like you just woke up. But every time you had a period of - coherency - you’d always ask for me. You’d always say you needed to talk to me. And we would.” He sighs, heavy, his next words barely a whisper, “but then you would always forget.”

“Sorry.” Alphonse says, finally able to find his voice. It’s so small and frail it surprises even himself, and Ed looks as though he’s been hit with the look he gives Al.

“What’re _you_ apologizing for,” Ed says, rubbing his nose to sniffle, “not like you can help that - that -” he stutters, brow knitting together in an attempt to find words, so Alphonse finishes it for him.

“That my soul has trouble re-attaching itself to my body,” Alphonse supplies, and sees Ed’s eyes momentarily widen, before he just nods mutely.

“Still,” Alphonse says, rubbing at his own eyes, attempting to dry his eyes, “sorry for putting you through that.”

Ed snorts humorlessly, shaking his head, “not your fault, idiot.”

Maybe, but guilt still settles into the pit of his stomach heavily like a stone. His brother looks like he hasn’t slept for those three weeks - and the thought that Ed’s haggard appearance is because of him uncomfortably weighs on him, regardless if he did so unintentionally or even consciously.

“But -” Alphonse starts, breaking the solemn silence that had settled between them. He isn’t even entirely sure what he wants to say, he just needs to speak, to say something that could help his brother, “ - I’m better - now.” He says, awkwardly, and he hopes his tone isn’t a shaky unsureness.  

“Yeah,” Ed says, quiet, “you’ve been sleeping well. Haven’t had a fit twice now.” He gives a weak smile, “and you remember.”

Alphonse smiles back, “yeah.”

The air between them seems to progressively become lighter, but it’s still a little uneasy regardless.

“You know - “ Ed says, before he halts himself, “ - nevermind.”

“What?” Alphonse frowns.

“It’s - It’s not important,” Ed says, and he’s clearly lying. He averts his gaze towards the floor and appears uncomfortable.

“Brother,” Alphonse says, and it brings Ed’s eyes back up to him, “tell me.”

Ed appears to have to prepare himself, taking in a deep breath - he’s still clearly unsure if he should say whatever is bothering him, but he eventually gives in.

“There was a time -” he starts, struggling, “there was a moment where I - where I really thought you’d stay like that.”

Ed rubs the back of his head, tugging at his braid, “that you’d keep forgetting. You know - the last time we spoke, when I gave you some water, yesterday?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, you forgot mid-way through that,” he says, weary.

Alphonse blinks, “I... did?”

“Yeah,” Ed sighs, “I gave you water to drink, and it was like you forgot how to drink, because you started choking.”

Alphonse remembers coughing and choking, he assumes that was what woke him up in the first place. Realizing that it wasn’t and he had previously been speaking to Ed and he can’t remember any of it, can barely remember anything before that, makes him feel a horrid nervousness.

Ed continues, “and after you stopped choking, you acted like you just woke up. Thought nothing changed.”

Ed straightens himself, “but maybe that was the last of it. Didn’t have a fit since,” he scrunches his nose, “there was a weird pop when you stopped choking, like the air pressure changed.”

“Maybe that was my soul tethering itself to my body,” Alphonse says, and it surprises even himself. He isn’t even sure where he gets the assertion, but he’s weirdly confident with his hypothesis regardless.

Ed stares at him, for a moment, as if digesting what Alphonse has just said.

“Better have,” Ed says, “if it hasn’t, I’ll kill God myself.”

“Speaking of God,” Alphonse starts, and Ed gives him a quizzical brow at that, “I - remember speaking with Truth again.”

Ed stares. His brows slowly come together in a tight not, clearly confused and uneasy at what Alphonse has just said.

“ _What?_ ” Ed says, and there’s venom in his words.

“Y-yeah,” Alphonse says, shifting uncomfortably in his bed, “I don’t know… when, but it spoke to me. It said that if I died -“ Ed flinches at the word, “- because my soul and body didn’t - _agree_ together, then that was unfortunate. After that, I think I woke up again to a bunch of doctors. Then I remember speaking to you.”

He isn’t really sure why he’s telling Ed this. It would probably be better not to tell Ed altogether, or at least tell him at another time. But he can’t stop himself, the words tumble out of his mouth without his own volition.

(He needs to convince himself he can remember, no matter how small the memory. He needs to make sure his mind isn’t failing him now, he needs to reassure his brother, so the words topple outwards.)

He shouldn’t - he knows he _shouldn’t_ \- his brother has already had to relive the past three weeks of his younger brother screaming for help at an unseen foe and costing him God knows how many hours of sleep (it isn’t _fair_ , he thinks bitterly, his brother had already gave Alphonse so much and now he has to give up more _after_ getting their damn bodies back), but he asks anyway: “how many times did my heart stop?”

It's out before he can really think better of it, and regrets it immediately when he sees Ed’s face contort into something more agonized.

He should apologize. Hell, he should beg for his brother’s forgiveness after asking for something like that. _Stupid,_ how could he be so insensitive -   

“I dunno,” Ed replies, tired, “I try not to think about it. There was a moment were I -”

Ed doesn’t finish, instead his jaw clenches and he stares steely at his hands as he fiddles with his fingers. Alphonse doesn’t need his brother to finish, he knows there’s an unspoken ‘ _thought you were dead_ ’ in the air, and he doesn’t want to push his brother more than he already has. His shame is blistering as is.

(A horrifying thought crosses Alphonse’s mind, of the fact he - nor anyone - don't really know for certain whether or not his soul has connected itself correctly. He feels like he’s in his metal body, a ticking time bomb, wherein he could suddenly die at any moment if his body or soul reject each other. The thought of telling his brother such, of telling Edward that he should be _prepared_ for such an event to happen, makes him physically nauseous. Even if it were an undeniable truth, he wouldn’t be strong enough to tell Ed.)

“Sorry.” Alphonse murmurs, and Ed simply waves him off as he huffs.

“You should sleep.” Ed says, rubbing his eyes.

Alphonse nods, he isn’t sure what time it is but it’s still dark out. He looks down at his bed, then back to where Ed attempts to get comfortable in his bed.

“There’s enough space for you to sleep in bed, brother,” Alphonse says, attempting a smile as Ed looks back at him, “I’m skinny enough that I only take up like, a third of it. Plenty for your fat ass.”

“Man,” Ed snorts, almost incredulous, “we haven’t slept in the same bed since forever.” Ed’s grin suddenly morphs into something more devious, practically scheming, “remember when you couldn’t sleep because the thunder scared you and you needed big brother to protect you because you’re a baby?”

Alphonse rolls his eyes, because he does remember - Ed had comforted him after he had cried over loud thunder that rolled overhead, and subsequently crawled into Ed’s bed for his brother’s safe presence.  

Alphonse doesn’t mention it out loud, but it’s a similar situation: he is scared.

He’s terrified of sleeping and waking up forgetting. It’s ironic - how long has Alphonse longed for the ability to sleep while in his armoured body, only now for him to be afraid of it now? The very thought is mortifying, he doesn’t want to be stuck in an endless loop of forgetting. He knows he won’t be alone if he were to sleep, because Ed would sleep in the same room as him regardless, and he doesn’t care if he’s too old for it - he needs something closer. It feels childish, and he is embarrassed by his want for his brother to comfort him in such a way, but he feels as though he is four again. It feels as though thunder wishes to strike him where he lays, and he knows he can trust his brother to make him more at ease.

He doesn’t say any of that, instead he settles for: “Shut up. If you want to sleep in the crappy chair and get a neck injury, that’s fine by me.”

Ed sighs theatrically, as if it takes a great effort to even indulge the idea as he raises from his chair, “scoot over, sleeping beauty.”

Alphonse can’t help but giggle, as he shifts himself to make room as Ed walks to his opposite side.

He pauses before the bed as he takes his boots off and kicks them to the side, and lifts himself awkwardly into the bed, laying on his back and skewed to the side. A foot dangles of the side, and he folds his arms neatly on his chest. With a huff, he places himself above the blankets. His breath hits Alphonse’s shoulder, hair tickling him, and it’s almost as if he was given another warm blanket.

“Thanks,” Alphonse finds himself murmuring, as he buries his head into the softness of the pillow. Ed already has his eyes closed, head faced towards the ceiling, and Alphonse sees him smirk.

“You’re my little brother,” Ed says, quiet, “I’m supposed to protect you.”

Alphonse smiles - and then wrinkles his nose.

“You smell weird.”

Ed doesn’t even open his eyes as he elbows Alphonse.

“Go to _sleep_ , dumbass.”

And with that, Alphonse finds himself slipping into a comfortable slumber, with his brother at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have half a mind to write out Ed's perceptive with this mess, during those three weeks. going through all the stages of grief. lol. I love these two, so I course I want to put them through Pain.  
> this fic shouldn't be much longer (one or two more chapters) but then again i said that before and now it's longer so we'll see. I hope you've enjoyed reading it regardless!! ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ Winry, Roy, Riza, Izumi, and Armstrong will be making appearances next time, so there's that to look forward to.


	3. During Twilight Hours II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this shit just keeps longer and longer, don't it. Whack. Also, everyone loves Alphonse

He awakens to a most horrific noise.

Well - no, that isn’t entirely correct. It is not the noise itself that wakes Alphonse, though it is indeed an unpleasant addition. But rather, it is Ed’s breath that slaps against his face and the resulting stench that comes with it that stirs him from his slumber.

The noise, of course, is Ed’s snoring.

An unholy cacophony if there ever was one, shattering what would otherwise be a peaceful silence that blankets the room. And entirely _annoying_.

When he opens his eyes at both the tactile and audial disturbance his brother is giving him, he is also given a visual inconvenience. His brother’s visage completes the _Trifecta of Obnoxious Displeasure to One’s Senses_ By Edward Elric as his brother’s head is turned to the side and faces Alphonse, his mouth is slightly agape as his face is squished into the pillow. His hair is tousled, an untamed grove. The guttural snorts Ed creates everytime he snores is akin to the sound Alphonse thinks what those corrupt monstrosities described in ancient tomes would probably sound like. At the very least, his brother isn’t _cuddling_ him. His face is too close for comfort and his breath disgusting, but his brother has unconsciously kept his own space at the side of the bed. A small boon.

He’d almost say he regretted asking his brother to share the bed with him last night, if it were not for the mere fact that he can recall the night before was in of itself a blessing.

Alphonse is groggy and his brain feels as though it requires additional time and resource to catch up with the rest of his body, but he realizes that yes - he _can_ remember. He remembers the conversation held between he and his brother underneath the moon’s light, and further still. He remembers the conversation he had with Ed when the sun was still out, and his drink of water. He remembers Truth, and the words it spoke still bring with it a chill that creeps upon his skin.

He remembers his own fear, suffocating and merciless, at the very thought that these memories could be stripped from him once he fell asleep. That he would awake - _screaming_.

But clearly that is not the case, for the fact he _does_ remember and also the fact his brother is with him, which indicates the night has gone by without interruption brought on by a fit.

The relief that cascades through him is like a waterfall, thundering within its wake that all other auxiliary senses become overwhelmed and indistinct.

It would have been a wondrous moment - if it were not for the fact Ed’s snoring punctuates throughout the air, staining it.

Alphonse wrinkles his nose, and debates pushing his brother off the bed entirely. He does not do so - not because he suddenly feels mercy - but because he knows in his current shape, his body isn’t strong enough to move the insurmountable weight that is his stupid brother’s ass.

So, instead, Alphonse settles for lifting an arm, bringing his hand to his brother’s face, and flicking at Ed’s nose, mid-snore.

Ed immediately splutters, a strangled squawk escaping him as he appears to choke on air. His nose wrinkles in the beginnings of a scowl, and he blearily opens his eyes.

Ed clearly hasn’t garnered the energy to gain spacial awareness yet, and his entire body flinches with Alphonse’s flick - as if the simple action had sent with it a wave of electricity throughout him - and Ed brings a sluggish arm upwards in what Alphonse assumes is meant to replicate a defensive posture.

There’s a moment wherein Alphonse thinks Ed will accidentally roll off the bed by himself, with his sleepyheaded attempts to discern what the great threat was that flicked his nose and how to defend himself against it. But then recognition and realization seem to hit him all at once when their eyes finally meet.

“Your breath reeks,” Alphonse greets, and Ed goes slack in the bed as he stares, “don’t you know how to do any sort of oral hygiene, brother?”

Ed’s stare turns into a glare, and he scoffs.

“Good morning to you too,” Ed rolls his eyes, before moves to shift out of the bed, and taking a cursory glance at the window and assessing that yes, it is the morning.

Ed sits on the edge as he stretches his back and yawns, and then promptly hops off to retrieve his boots that he had discarded haphazardly the previous night.

Ed still has his braid on - hadn’t undone it when the two went to sleep - which indicates to Alphonse that:

A) Ed hasn’t yet had any sort of shower.

B) Ed hasn’t yet performed any sort of personal cleanliness in general. He wonders if in the crevices of his braid, therein lies grease.

His about to ask his brother if he thinks himself a caveman, but Ed speaks first.

“So, how you feeling?” He asks, finishing the lacing of his boots, quirking a brow to his brother.   

Alphonse hums, “good.” It’s true, to a point - he feels better than good, really. His bed is delicately soft and welcoming, and the hues of smooth sunlight that seep into the room is perhaps the most comforting thing he’s ever felt.

Ed nods, clearly both approving and relieved. There’s a small glint in his eyes, a minute crease of the brows, and Alphonse knows his older brother is attempting to gauge whether or not Al’s memory had been affected during his sleep by scrutinizing his younger brother’s behaviour. Before Ed can outright ask, Alphonse answers for him.

“And I remember, too,” Alphonse says, and he feels himself smiling, “sleep was good, also.”

The reprieve that goes through Ed is physically visible by how he sags his shoulders in respite, as if a weight had been lifted. Ed does not bother to hide the expression of unmitigated bliss on his face by his brother’s confirmation.

“Fucking good,” Ed says, “yeah that’s - good.”

Alphonse snorts, musing how between the two of them, they’ve abused the word “good” to the point of unusability.

“Yeah, I remember you crying like a baby last night,” Alphonse says, affectionately mocking. He snickers at how quickly Ed’s face morphs from relief to offense in less than a second.

“Well _excuse me_ ,” Ed scoffs, “some of us have brothers who’ve been stuck in emergency care for three weeks.”

Alphonse hums, “sounds like a real drag.”

“Totally.” Ed says, scrunching his face in disapproval, “and he’s a total ungrateful swine. You’d think a guy would be more thankful when his brother expresses concern for his safety. A _real_ drag.”

Ed smiles smugly towards Alphonse’s direction, and Al knows it's all in jest, but there's a small twinge of guilt that cuts at him for a moment regardless. He knows Ed’s current unkempt condition is because of him, that Ed most likely forwent showering or sleeping in exchange to look over his younger brother when Alphonse was still - _out of it_.

Deciding to ignore his own overreaction, Alphonse chooses to move the conversation.

“Though there is something that would make me feel even better,” Alphonse begins, and Ed tilts his head in attention.

“Yeah?”

“If you’d take a shower,” Alphonse says, “I think collectively everyone’s quality of life would improve. Mine’s specifically.”

Ed makes a grunt, “what is this,” he asks, exasperated, “ ‘make fun of your amazing older brother’ day?”

“Brother, everyday is ‘make fun of my shorter older brother’ day.”

Now Ed looks _genuinely_ offended, if his facial expression was anything to go by.

Ed walks to the side of the bed, before he brings an arm forward to stab at Alphonse’s side with a vicious poke.

“Listen here, dumbass -” _poke_ , “ - be thankful your body’s weak for now -” _poke_ , “ - and that I have morals -” _poke_ , “ - or else _these_ -” _poke, poke_ , “ - would be punches.”

Alphonse swats at Ed’s annoying onslaught, scowling, “oh I’m _so_ thankful,” sarcasm drips from his words, “that my stupid brother decides to keep doing bodily harm to a minimum.”

Ed lets out a snicker, before pointing accusingly at Alphonse, “when you’ve got enough meat on these bones -” another frustrating poke, accompanied with a smug shit-eating grin, “-it’s _over_ for you.”

 

* * *

 

Winry’s presence is practically a second sun, with how bright she smiles and the warmth she gives Alphonse.

She visits that afternoon - but not before Alphonse is barraged by an assortment of medical personnel first.

Dr. Warren, whom apparently has needed to introduce herself a total of seventeen separate times to him during his episodes, assesses both his physical and mental condition. Along with her (long, arduous) examination of Alphonse is a psychiatrist that apparently was called from a neighbouring area in an attempt to understand Al’s earlier symptoms. His name is Dr. Davis and he describes Alphonse as “fascinating case” and “one he would love to continue to document”. Alphonse has met the man on ten separate occasions, and he shows Alphonse that he had transcribed every detail of their previous conversations that Al doesn’t remember. Alphonse decides already that he doesn’t like the man. Another doctor, Dr. Torres, tells Alphonse that the first time he woke screaming, it nearly gave him a heart attack.

Dr. Marcoh had also looked at him during those three weeks, and reveals that he had offered Alphonse a Philosopher's Stone during a moment of lucidity between his episodes - in fact he had offered twice. Alphonse had refused both times, even after Dr. Marcoh had explained that his symptoms were the result of his soul having difficulties re-attaching. Past Alphonse had explained that he would not use the souls of others to fix his own, both times. Evidently, Ed had yelled at Marcoh over even propositioning the thing in the first place. The Philosopher’s Stone was used to heal Havoc and Mustang instead.

A nurse greets him when he measures Alphonse’s blood pressure, and says his name is Jeremiah. Alphonse and Jeremiah have met sixteen times, and tells Alphonse there was a time wherein for about an hour the two of them discussed cats. Jeremiah’s favourite cat breed is the tabby, and he owns a pair of them, named Daisy and Barney.

Alphonse is both disappointed and glad he doesn’t remember that particular conversation. Disappointed because Jeremiah is devastatingly handsome - tall, clean shaven, strong jawline, kind eyes, intelligent, loves cats - and glad because Jeremiah is devastatingly handsome. Alphonse is sure past him was a bumbling, flustered fool when talking about cats with the man.

He feels his face heat up even when Jeremiah checks his heart rate, and he has the itching suspicion that Jeremiah’s subtle smirk when he reveals Alphonse’s heart is racey is because Jeremiah _knows_ the effect he has on him. Alphonse could not respond, instead spluttering and averting his embarrassed eyes, while internally wishing to be at the Gate rather stuck in a room with _Mr. Stupid, Sexy Nurse_.

After his interrogation and examination that _finally_ discern that yes, Alphonse’s physical and mental wellbeing are headed towards the right direction, and that yes, he is entirely cognitively aware of himself and others, and that _yes_ , he can make total rational and unimpaired decisions, is when Alphonse is eventually given the all clear for visitors.

Apparently, there’s a _waiting list._     

( _“A…” Alphonse starts, creasing his brows in confusion, “... Waiting list?”_ _  
_ _He enunciates slowly, still not entirely sure he heard his brother correctly, or if Ed has perfected the art of sounding so casual that he could make any joke sound serious._

_And Alphonse does thinks Ed is joking, but then Ed gives him a look like he’s stupid._

_“Yeah,” Ed says, rolling his eyes, “everyone likes you. They want to make sure you’re alright.”_

_Ed says it like he’s explaining something completely obvious and an objective fact. Like how one would describe that things get wet after being submerged in water to a toddler. Except pinched with a little more jeering, as_ clearly _, Alphonse is an idiot for not realizing the fact earlier._

_Alphonse stares at his brother, blankly, not sure on how to respond._

_Ed continues, “obviously because I’m family I got to speak with you first,” his tone has adopted to being more casual as his braids his - finally cleaned - hair, “and obviously because_ Winry’s _family, she’ll be coming today. Teacher should be visiting soon too, because she’s basically family as well. Though I think she also scared everyone into being one of the firsts in line.”_

 _Alphonse still does not know how to properly respond - not because he’s_ confused _by the fact that allegedly half the military want to talk to him after getting his body back - but because he’s entirely_ overwhelmed _by such a fact. Winry and Teacher he expects, but the fact that Mustang, Hawkeye, Armstrong, Havoc, Breda, Fuery, Falman, Ross and even others from Brigg, wish to meet with him, makes him feel something bubbling inside him. It makes him feel completely dumbfounded._

 _That these people wish to meet with him so much that they’ve created a literal_ waiting list _is beyond Alphonse, and it makes his throat go tight. It makes his chest have a dull ache, his vision blurry. He does not bawl, but he makes small sniffles, and Ed rubs his shoulder, saying softly, “everyone was worried about you, Al.”)_

Winry smile is perhaps the widest he’s ever seen it, bright and jubilant, as she enters Alphonse’s room. Ed hums his own greeting to Winry, accompanied with a wave as he sits in one of the two chairs that are next to Alphonse’s bed.

Alphonse is entirely distracted by Winry’s mere presence that he does not realize at first that she is carrying a food tray with her.

“Alphonse!” she greets, exuberant, and Alphonse shifts himself to a straighter sitting position to greet her. “Your hair’s probably longer than mine!”

“Winry,” he says, his own smile reaching his eyes, “it’s so good to see you.” It is then Alphonse realizes she is carrying something, and his eyes dart downwards when she extends her arms to show Alphonse the boon she carries with her.

“Hope you’re ready to eat,” she says, her eyes soft, “first time since forever, you must be starving. Docs say its rice soup.”

When Winry places the tray at his lap, the lunch he is given is remarkably _un_ remarkable, all things considered. On the tray lays a single bowl, and a spoon to the left of it. Inside the bowl, it is only half filled with a creamy white soup, that lacks any sort of distinctive characteristics. Indeed, in any other context the meal could be described as utterly underwhelming - but in the moment, Alphonse stares with wonder.

“Hope its good,” Winry says, as she seats herself in her chair, “they say you’re going to start having it like, eight times a day.”

Alphonse already knows that - during his examination they had told him much. During those three weeks, he had been primarily fed through intravenous infusion and a gastrointestinal tube - by ways of explaining what tubes were in the first place, as when they had pointed them out, it was surprisingly the first time he had truly taken note of them. Due to the fact he was barely lucid enough, or strong enough, to eat on his own through his mouth in those three weeks, his nutrient intake was facilitated by medical staff.     

Now however - now he could finally _eat._ Even if the meal itself was small and dull looking, the lumpy mush of the white soup gleams like impeccable pearls to Alphonse. It’s a treasure.

“You need help with that?” Ed asks, breaking Alphonse from his stupor. Alphonse blinks up at his brother and Winry, both of whom watch him.

Winry rolls her eyes, and lightly shoves at Ed’s shoulder, “I think he can eat by himself. He’s a little old for _‘here comes the airplane’,_  you know.”

Alphonse snorts, and Ed scoffs.

“You’re just as bad as Al,” Ed huffs, leaning back into his chair and folding his arms with a pout, “try to help the guy out and you get made fun of. I’m never doing charity work again.”

Al snickers, “you’re such a saint, brother.” Ed scowls in his direction, which prompts both Winry and Al snigger.

“Well _eat_ then,” Winry prompts, her excitement is infectious, “tell us how it is. We’re on the edge of our seats.”

Alphonse doesn’t need to be told twice, he grabs the spoon and places a hand on the side of the bowl - it’s lukewarm, and the sensation of subtle warmth is calming to his skin. He scoops what is perhaps too big of a portion for the spoon, but Alphonse finds he doesn’t really care.

His own excitement borders on hysteria, and he can’t bring himself to notice how the spoon shakes from his own trembling. The only thing that consumes his entire thought process is the fact he can _eat_ , and the moment almost feels like one of those long lost daydreams he had when he was still a suit of armour. He lurches his own head forward when the spoon is brought to his mouth, as if in any moment the food will be taken away from him, that it will disappear as a figment of his imagination.

(It had happened before, the food dispersing into nothingness as Alphonse finds himself lost in a futile fantasy as he watches his brother munch on a sandwich from the corner of his vision. He could not even imagine the texture of the food, nor the flavour, and instead settled for looking down at his feet, hollow and empty).

Ed has actually has re-postured himself in leaning forward, hands ready in position to aid his brother if Alphonse either makes a mess like a toddler or eats too fast, but Alphonse himself does not take notice.

The only thing that occupies every ounce of awareness from him, is how the soup feels in his mouth. The spoon itself is still in his mouth, lips curled around handle as his tongue carefully curves over the metal and the soup that comes with it.

The taste itself isn’t anything extraordinary -  all things considered it’s rather bland. Savoury, with a pinch of salt, but the taste itself isn’t what has Alphonse fixed stunned, eyes wide but staring at nothing. It is the fact he _can_ taste in the first place, that he can sense the tang of the soup, the smoothness of the spoon, and lumpy texture of the rice, swishing in between his cheeks.

He slowly takes the spoon out of his mouth, distantly he hears Ed saying “well?”, but he is still too absorbed in the sensation within his mouth to take any notice. The hand holding the spoon drops onto the tray, and all Alphonse focuses on is how when he swallows, he feels the soup descend into his throat.

It’s undeniably _there_ , not a phantom sensation, but physically going down his throat that is undoubtedly in a body that belongs to him. It is almost as if the entirety of the confirmation that _yes_ , he physically has a body of flesh that can feel and _eat_ hit him all at once. It practically knocks the wind out of him, shuddering throughout his entire body - _a body of skin and muscle that eats that isn’t metal and cold_ -

There’s a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly. He hears his name being called, Ed’s voice twinged in slight concern, and Alphonse turns to face his brother and Winry. His vision is blurred, but he can make out that the two of them are watching him intently.

“I can eat,” is all Alphonse can squeak out, and he only now registers that he is crying, his voice cracking. “ _I can eat._ ” he repeats, and he isn’t even entirely sure why he does so. But the affirmation, and absolute confirmation, that undeniable fact he can do so, is completely overwhelming. He doesn’t think at the moment he could say anything else, but he doesn’t need to because _he can eat, he can eat_.

“Yeah,” Ed says, squeezing his shoulder, nodding, his face revealing that he may cry with his brother, “yeah - you can. You can eat, Al.”

Alphonse doesn’t respond, only sniffled when he feels the soup settling in his stomach. He looks down at the soup, this most wonderous, fantastical rice soup that’s a miracle sitting upon his lap, a shining beacon the gleams brighter than any gold.

“Geez, you guys,” he hears Winry say, halfway between a snivel and a snicker, “you’re making me cry, you goobers.”

Alphonse laughs, its soft and out of breath, and he brings his empty hand outwards to rubs at his eyes. He thinks he could stay in the moment for all eternity - the feeling of food in his stomach, warmth blossoming in his heart, his brother and childhood friend a comforting presence that wraps him a reassuring blanket that makes him feel whole and safe. It is a moment he knows he will remember, and it is a moment he wants immortalized.

He takes another spoonful of soup, and brings it to his mouth for another bite.

 

* * *

 

“ _Alphonse Elric!_ ”

The voice that bursts through the doorway is a mini earthquake, hurricane, and tsunami all at once. It makes Alphonse drop the book he was reading into his lap in surprise as he startles, a deer frozen in the headlights of Teacher’s glare.

She squints at him, almost suspicious, the action itself is weirdly loud in the resulting silence that sharply contrasts the previous harshness of Teacher’s entrance.

Alphonse had - up until this point - been enjoying a quiet afternoon reading a book entitled _The Natural History of Amestris: 100 Years of Discovery_ , which detailed known species of fauna and flora of the land and how they were discovered and initially described. A “boring book written by a twat only Alphonse could enjoy”, as described as Ed, whom had taken it upon himself to see if he couldn’t procure something a little more interesting for his brother. By “interesting”, Ed had referenced an assortment of “more reputable zoology books that weren’t written by a man who describes marine iguanas as gargoyles and based analysis on aesthetics alone” to gay romance novels of “maybe between a king and a commoner, filled with drama due to their hierarchy, a forbidden love that eventually triumphs” - accompanied, of course, with a ridiculous eyebrow waggle.

Winry was no help either. She only encouraged Ed and his oppression. Her betrayal cut deep, the wound only given salt when she cooed about finding a novel of equal melodramatics and sentiment between two farmers. Winry had the audacity to suggest finding a story where the main protagonist was a blond, an alchemist, and maybe even wore armour from time to time. To Alphonse’s defeated groan and burying his face in his hands, the two of them took it as triumph as they sought out their mission. Winry, _truly_ , is as bad as Edward.   

In their absence, Alphonse was given more soup - the third of that day - and presumed that until the two goblins he thought as family returned, he would be left in peace.

Alphonse briefly thinks Teacher either snuck into the building (why she would, he doesn’t know but he wouldn’t put it past her), or her general presence exuded such an intense terrifying aura, no medical staff either stopped her march to his room or thought it wise to mention to Alphonse of her visit beforehand (the more likely scenario).  

Teacher closes the door behind her, establishing herself next to Al’s bed as she firmly places her hands on her hips.

“You’re a twig.” She says, flatly, before Alphonse can even greet her properly.

“Uh,” Alphonse responds, looking down at himself and reaffirming that yes, he is still rather underweight. “Yeah.” He looks back up to her.

She wrinkles in what appears to be in disapproval, and Alphonse isn’t sure if he should feel guilty at his current state or not.

She glances at his finished bowl of soup that on the table next to him, “you’ve only been eating soups.” Not a question, a mere observation. Alphonse is sure he doesn’t need to explain that his body still has difficulties intaking solid food (soups included), Teacher is anything but stupid, but she seems displeasing regardless.

“When will you be able to eat regularly?” She asks.

“Um,” Alphonse says, creasing his brows, “I dunno?” He says, sheepish. Teacher’s piercing gaze doesn’t feel - _accusing_ , but there’s still a hint of some discontent. At this point, he isn’t actually sure if it’s entirely directed at him. If her ire was truly aimed at him, she would have made it more obvious by blatantly stating so at the beginning. He thinks she’s angry at the fact he hasn’t eaten something more indulgent.

“Edward mentioned you have a list of things you want to eat,” she says, more casual, “what is it you would like to try first?” Well, _now_ he’s certain she’s annoyed he hasn’t been able to indulge himself.

Alphonse blinks up at her, because the list of things he wishes to eat is practically endless, at this point. A mountain of items, not even of things that are new to him, just anything and _everything_ , old and new - it doesn’t matter. He’s gone too long having not eaten anything to not just gorge himself. He thinks he earned the right to be a _little_ hedonistic.

He has literally an endless selection of things he wants to eat, but at the moment, having to _chose_ , proves more difficult than he thought it would be. His mind is suddenly blank.

“You like stew.” Teacher supplies, folding her arms. He nods, it’s true, he does. Stew’s a delicacy on its own with the intense variety it presents, a culinary portrayal of creativity and finesse, a comforting warmth on a cold evening. Stew’s _good_.

“I distinctly remember you saying ‘ _fuck yeah_ ’ when Edward mentioned I was making some for supper.” There’s a slight curl of his lips, amusement lacing her words. “I believe that was the first time I heard you curse.”

“Stew’s delicious,” he responds, after his own snicker at the memory. “And you were making beef stew with carrots and potatoes, how could I not be excited for it?”

Teacher chuckles, “well then, it’s settled. You’ll have stew first.” She has a twinkle in her eyes, which is usually associated with what she perceives as exciting (usually involving something violent, usually involving Alphonse and Edward), “and you’ll help me make it. A growing man like you should learn how to make his own food.” She considers for a second, before continuing, “in fact you should already know how to make it.”

It's true, to a point. When Alphonse and Ed were under Teacher's guidance before they had done the ultimate taboo, his brother and himself had lived with Teacher. And living with her entailed also doing chores (understandable, but something Ed lamented about regardless), and Teacher had also included helping her in the kitchen with such tasks, such as helping with cooking or cleaning the dishes. At some times, she would order the two of them to make her food, and if it wasn't edible (which was often) she would berate them while showing them, in detail, where their mistakes were and how to correct it, before she helped them make a version that someone could actually eat. Stew was one of these items.

Hunting for small animals and roasting them on an open fire on a deserted island is one thing, but having to make food in a kitchen is a completely different thing. It’s not as simple, on an island the most complex task is to get the animal. In a kitchen, one needs to hunt for an menagerie of different objects that sometime appear to blink out of existence. It's entirely more complicated, Alphonse finds.

Alphonse remembers he enjoyed cooking - but with a body that could no longer taste, feel, or smell, it quickly became a task that only served to remind him what he had lost. It's no more than a dull ache, and Alphonse very quickly dropped the hobby as soon as he was bound to a suit of armour.

So Alphonse isn't sure he can actually make stew anymore.

“I think I'll still need help.” He says, blinking through his fringe.

Teacher snorts, “you won’t be leaving Dublith until you’ve eaten everything from your list-” she points suddenly at Alphonse, gaze piercing, “-do you understand? When you’re able to leave here, you’re going straight to my house so I can fatten you up.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but Teacher cuts him off, “Edward will come too and you may invite Winry if you want.”

Alphonse blinks. He had assumed Ed, Winry and himself would all leave together to Resembool and - well. He hadn’t exactly gotten any further than that. All he knows is that he longed to feel the air of the countryside, to bathe in the sun's light while sitting in a field while listening to the soft hum of bees that investigated the nearby flowers. The nostalgia is such a reminisce caresses him in a soft embrace, and it's one he wishes to melt into.

But clearly, Teacher has other plans. And the thought of Ed, Winry and himself together in Teacher’s abode is a similar feeling of comfort. It's an image that gives him a likewise sense of nostalgia as does Resembool.  

“I'd like that.” He says, finding his voice surprisingly soft. Meeting Teacher’s gaze, her face gentle, a faint smile playing in her lips as she gives a small nod.

“You want your hair braided or are you gonna keep it blinding you?”

Alphonse snorts, tucking a curtain of his fringe behind his ear so it doesn't continue to obscure his vision.

“I don’t think Ed would appreciate if I stole his style.” Alphonse jokes, “and I don’t think Winry would like it if i stole _her_ style, so I’ll have it cut short.”

“Short like when you were still my student?” She asks, a quirked brow.

“Yeah.”

“Can you stand?”

The sudden curve of conversation has Alphonse take pause, but he quickly answers. “Don’t think so…”

He looks down towards his legs, covered by his bed blankets. He’s had nurses come in to lift his legs and have them bend at the knees, to encourage blood flow and muscle response, and when asked when he could walk, had said he would be on his feet soon. His lower limbs are present, and he can vaguely register them - he can feel his gown and the blankets upon his skin - but at the same time they’re disconnected. Floaty. The extent of what he can do is wiggle a toe or two.

“...I should be able to soon, tho-”

Alphonse isn’t given time to answer completely, because the next thing he realizes is that Teacher has, in one terrifying swift motion, slid his blanket from him and situated her hands beneath his armpits.

Alphonse knows he doesn’t weigh a lot in his current condition, but Teacher lifts him out of his bed as if he is as heavy as a single feather. Effortless, quick, and effective - as is everything she does.

He’s sure what she is currently doing is breaching multiple codes of conduct, doing everything that is currently prohibited for him due to his condition - but he thinks even if there _were_ hospital staff in the room with them, she would be picking him up regardless, entire hospital be damned.

He’s just glad there isn’t any tubes currently affixed to him, though if there were, he’s also fairly certain Teacher would have been able to deal with them in a blink of an eye as if she had a pair of phantom arms to assist her regardless.

“W-What are you -?” Alphonse sputters out, but is cut short when Teacher plants him onto one of the chairs the flank his bed, and when his rear hits the padded surface of the chair, he’s stunned into silence. Mostly because his feet feel the coolness of the tiles, and its ice to the warmth of the bed.

“Going to cut your hair.” Teacher says, matter-of-factly, as if she hadn’t just hoisted a bed-ridden teen with no hesitation or effort.

“Oh.” Is all Alphonse is capable of getting out, as he looks up from his still feet on the floor up towards Teacher, who has inexplicably procured a pair of scissors.

He’s not sure where she got it, of even if she had it on her person in the first place. Does Teacher make it a habit to carry scissors with her? Is it something she acquired through thin air, simply willing it into existence through simple concentration? Alphonse has already made peace with himself not to question Teacher - the universe bends to her, and he just has to accept the fact.

“I don’t -” Alphonse begins, wanting to tell her that he should probably be in bed, that he’ll have his hair cut later, that Winry herself offered, but Teacher interrupts.

“Do you have any styles in mind, or would you just like it short?” She asks, moving to be behind him as she curdles her fingers through his hair.

The action of her hands sweeping in between the threads of his hair is swift and quick, simply her assessing the length and feel of his hair. But the sensation has his skin break out in goose pimples and sends a shock through him.

It’s a complete overreaction, and even though the light snaking of Teacher’s fingers against his scalp nearly seems to make him short circuit, he is able to quickly recover himself and answer.

“No - Just short.” He says, looking down at his immobile feet. If Teacher notices his reaction to her simple touching of his hair - and he’s certain she has - she doesn’t mention it. Instead, as a response, she merely hums.

She starts at the ends of his long locks, snipping with purpose as he feels loose hair land on his shoulder before slipping to the ground. The air is filled with Teacher’s methodical snipping, and sometimes she gently moves his head to receive a better angle.

Alphonse thinks it would probably be easier to cut his hair if it were wet - but then again, he also knows not to question her and her abilities, wet hair or not.

Alphonse is content to let it go on in comfortable silence, but when Teacher again glides her hand through his hair, massaging at his head - _definately_ more deliberate - he finds himself _sagging_ at the touch. He hadn’t realized he was starved for something more than just food.

It's ridiculous. It's _embarrassing_ , and when he collects himself he is just that: embarrassed. He curls on himself because he just acted like a mewling kitten desperate for attention in front of _Teacher_ and-

A sudden ruffle of his hair stops his thoughts, and Teacher’s chuckle actually has him heaving out an indignant snort as he peaks behind himself up to her.

“Sig will be happy to pet your head when you come over.” She says, playful and it makes Alphonse’s cheeks go red.

He mutters something incomprehensible (even to himself), and Teacher merely giggles softly and continues her work.

“So, what are you planning now?”

And thus their conversation lulls into a mellow stream of Alphonse explaining that, currently, his highest priority is to lay in a field and simply bask in the sun. Teacher says that’s admirable, but not to be stupid enough to stay out long enough to get sunburnt. She expresses her own glee at how Alphonse has his body back, but if he decides to go carelessly harming it, she will personally put his soul back into a suit of armour. Alphonse sniggers as he watches the mounds of blond hair increase on the floor.

When Teacher is done - and she finishes in a barrack of time Alphonse thinks might be a world record - she seems to compose a mirror out of thin air. Alphonse isn’t sure if she had come with the express purpose of cutting his hair in the first place and he simply hadn’t noticed the items on her person, or if the rules of reality simply do not apply to her. Both are equally likely.

“You’ve become a strapping young man, Alphonse.” She says, and it is laced with smugness as he takes hold of the mirror.

Much like the hand in his hair, he becomes stunned once more. Alphonse is frozen as he stares at the image the mirror produces: a boy stares back, golden eyes wide. His reflection shows his gaunt cheeks in the process of refilling into a healthy face, his hair is short, sunkissed and seated neatly on his head. He brings a hand to his hand to feel it, soft as he threads his fingers between it. His hand slides downwards, feeling at his cheeks, moving over his nose, brushing against his lips -

He has a body. He _knows_ this, he’s spent many a moment just leisurely feeling at his face and smiling to himself, but to _see_ it - to reaffirm it through such a simple reflection, is almost otherworldly.

He hopes, within time, when he’s gained more weight, there’ll be boys who’ll find him _cute_.

He nearly forgets Teacher is in the room with him, and he knows he’s been staring at the mirror for more than what is strictly necessary to check his hair, so he quickly blinks up to her - before he makes an impression of a fish as he opens his mouth, only for no sound to come out, and closing it again.

She quirks a brow at him.

“Speechless?” She says, pompous, and Alphonse wants to wrinkle his nose at her, “if I wasn’t already a housewife, I’d become a hairdresser.”

“Thank you,” he’s finally able to say, as he looks back down at the mirror, blinking at the reflection, “it looks good.”

Teacher hums, “I’ll put you back to bed. I’ll clean up when you’re tucked in.”

Alphonse hands her the mirror, which she places off to the side on the table, before he lifts his arms for her to grip at his armpits.

She could, of course, very easily lift him up as if he weighs nothing. But now she lifts him slowly, gently, purposeful as she hoists him to his numb feet.

He gasps despite himself, feeling his own weight through his dull legs. He grips at Teacher’s shoulders, shaking as he stares at his feet, motionless except for the tremors flowed from his trembling legs. His legs are unsteady and basically comatose, and he would most certainly fall if it weren’t for Teacher’s reliable ( _safe_ ) support. His skin prickles, and feeling his muscles tingling at supporting weight is exhilarating.

He buckles, suddenly, knees giving out and he emits a small yelp as he buries his face into Teacher’s shoulder, hands desperately scrabbling for purpose as he clings around her. His tumble is easily caught by her with little effort - of course - and she settles her grip curling around him in a protective and secure (bear) hug, in where she completely holds his weight.

His breath is caught in his throat, and he needs a moment to gather himself as he blinks into Teacher’s shoulder. She makes no move to lift him into bed, or to move, she keeps him in her arms, calm and unshaken. She merely holds him, her breath even, and Alphonse practically feels as though he’s already in bed: comfortable and warm.

When Teacher starts moving a hand - rubbing small, reassuring circles on his back, he breathes in a shuddering breath.

His grip into her shirt tightens, mirrored similarly how his own throat tightens. This feeling - of Teacher holding him, rubbing his back, hugging him as she carefully aids his weight - is entirely blissfully overwhelming.

“I’ve got you.” She says, an assuring whisper as she presses her lips against his head.

Alphonse does not find words at the moment, instead settling for nodding fervently into her shoulder to let her know he understands. He swallows thickly, blinking as he feels his eyes begin to moisten.

“ _Thank you,_ ” he’s finally able to croak out, his voice muffled into her shoulder. He doesn’t know what he thanks for her specifically but he wants to thank her for everything: for catching him, for cutting his hair, for letting him feel weight on his legs, for letting him feel a mother’s hug again -

“Thank you -”  He repeats, and ‘ _mom_ ’ is on the tip of his tongue, ripe for the picking and so deceptively simple to say. It feels right to do so, _complete_ , but something holds him back.

He may not say it out loud, but when he feels her smile in his hair, he knows she heard it anyway.

 

* * *

 

Walking wasn’t necessarily a thing he missed. As a suit of armour, he could still _walk_ and run - although as a being with no feeling he never could feel any weight to the motion. His locomotion as a suit of armour was more out of memory on how to do the task than anything else, and if he were to think too hard on it, his balance would slip from him, as a sudden realization that he had no connecting limbs would hit him.

But it was never missed as something like eating or sleeping, but as someone who’s been bedridden and only transported via wheelchair by a brother who thinks providing a soundtrack of ‘ _vroom vroom_ ’ is peak comedy, walking freely is something to be desired.

Currently, _running_ would be fantastic.

“So, we should make flyers and put them around the city saying ‘ _young bachelor seeking company of a man to sweep me off my feet_ ’,” Ed taunts, situated to Alphonse’s side as Al has his arms wrapped around his brother’s shoulders for support, as he attempts to walk on unsteady wobbly legs. Ed, of course, demanded that he be his brother’s walking stick, and the nurses currently overseeing Alphonse’s process relented - because arguing otherwise is completely fruitless with regards to Ed.

“Yeah,” Winry says, equally playfully jeering to Alphonse’s other side, following Al’s shakey footsteps, “and rent out on those high end fancy restaurants and have Al in the center as Amestris’s finest gentlemen line up to seduce everyone’s favourite dweeb.” Winry’s face mirrors that of Ed: Exasperatedly teasing and awfully sadistic. She had taken no time in indulging Ed and his fantasy for being a dreadful matchmaker - a comment Alphonse had thought Ed had forgotten about, but he should know by now his older brother has a penchant for only remembering facets that serve only further annoy his younger brother. Winry thought the idea was good conversation as she wished to visit Alphonse for his (in her words) “ _first_   _teenage baby steps_ ”.

“I’m going to become a hermit in the mountains.” Alphonse mutters, pointedly staring to the floor as he attempts to place one rickety foot in front of the other. He can feel his cheeks flush, and he tries to keep his focus on the legs that currently feel like melting jelly. “And I’m never gonna speak to either of you again.”

“Alright, so your dream man’s gotta like hiking, got it.” Winry says, and Alphonse attempts to give her his best glare.

“Oh-ho,” Ed says, devious, and Alphonse internally dips into despair, “like a burly lumberjack. A hairy mountain man built like a bear.” He nods, sagely, like an intelligent wizard and Alphonse wants to deck him.

 _Breath in, breath out,_ Alphonse attempts to center himself. Find your inner zen. All that currently matters to lifting a sloppy leg and taking a step. His brother is not a sickening anchor that he is forced to due to the fact he currently has as much balance as an infant. His best friend is not a prison warden that seeks to keep him confined with her own jeering. The attending nurses that make sure he doesn’t collapse while walking as they monitor his process are most certainly not snickering off to the side.

Winry snorts, “does Major Armstrong fit that?”

Alphonse scoffs before he can help himself, lifting his head too meet her eyes as he makes a disapproving face.

“Excuse me,” he says, _insulted_. “Don’t disrespect me like that.”

Winry throws her head back in a laugh, and Alphonse feels like he should protect his honour by reaffirming to the two of them that he better tastes than that.

“Man,” Ed says, “that’s almost as bad as Mustang. Almost.”

Alphonse wants to make any sort of retort, and he sees that Winry is about to say something, but the door of the room opening dramatically cuts them both off.

“Pardon me.” Armstrong says, towering within the doorway that he looks comically too big for. Alphonse thinks the mere utterance of his name in passing appears to have summoned his presence, or the universe decides that it needs to throw more annoyances his way that he can’t escape.

Armstrong sweeps his eyes upon the occupants of the room, quickly finding Alphonse’s gaze which has the man dramatically placing a hand on his chest.

“Oh, Alphonse!” he declares, fiercely, and Alphonse sees Ed’s annoyed scowl from his peripheral.

“You’ve made fantastic progress, I can already tell!” the giant of a man exclaims, and Alphonse feels as though rose petals should be littering the air. Armstrong beams, practically becoming a lamppost, “you could fit inside the palm of my hand when I first saw you on the Promised Day. And now you’ve gotten twice as big!”

Armstrong produces a cooing sigh as he surveys Alphonse’s current condition, as if looking at a kitten. Alphonse merely stares back. He can see the beginning of Armstrong’s eyes glistening, and he vaguely sees that one of the nurses burying her face in her palm - whether to stifle her giggles or out of annoyance, he isn’t sure.

“Uh,” Alphonse begins. He’s thankful Armstrong has an interest in his wellbeing but that doesn’t change the fact being in the man’s presence is an entirely awkward experience. “Thanks?”

“It is just - It’s just wonderful to see you standing on your own two legs.” Armstrong chokes out, and Alphonse wonders if he needs a tissue. “You’ve been fraught with such hardships, had given yourself up for your brother to receive his arm back, and when finally having earned your body back, the transferal of your soul is rough and cruel!”

Alphonse feels Ed stiffen beside him.

“Okay -” Ed attempts to begin, no doubt wanting to tell Armstrong to buzz off.

Armstrong cuts him off by placing a strong hand on Alphonse’s shoulder suddenly - nearly making his knees buckle. The action prompts Winry to get in the position to catch him, as well as the makes the nurses to also react to be on the ready. Ed grunts beside him as he attempts to reestablish his hold on his brother - and Armstrong gazes deeply at Alphonse, his blue eyes shining with tears and admiration.

“Unfair I say!” The Major says. Alphonse is inclined to agree, “Such injustice, forced upon such a lovely boy!”

Alphonse blinks, and Ed growls. His brother opens his mouth again but once more, Armstrong cuts him off.

“And Edward!” The Major exclaims, and the change of attention has Ed splutter in indignant surprise. “Always, without fail, by your brother’s side. Always, without fail, aiding your brother. Always, without fail, being completely dedicated to your brother! Such love! Such a strong bond between the two of you!” Armstrong makes another choked sound, squeezing his eyes shut in a dramatic display of jubilation as he becomes overwhelmed by the mere thought of Ed and Alphonse’s relationship.

“Sir -” A nurse starts, but at the moment, nothing can stop Armstrong. He’s a man overpowered by affection, driven only by his emotions rather than reason.

“I’ve never seen a more fantastic representation of a perfect sibling relationship!” Armstrong yells in reverence, tears proudly streaming down his cheeks. “The both you fill me with such hope! Such joy! I wish nothing more than the very best of the two of you, to prosper and have all your dreams come true!”

“That’s nice.” Alphonse croaks out weakly, taking a shaky step back at Armstrong’s hulking presence. The air around Armstrong is rose tinted, passionate, and the muscles below his shirt are becoming increasingly more visible. The visage of the man lets Alphonse know that the ticking time bomb that is Armstrong’s muscles is terrifying countdown to when they will break out of their prison that is his jacket. It fills Alphonse with dread, so he attempts to say something that could get Armstrong out of the room, or at least further away so that Alphonse is not in his blast radius, “Thank you-”

“Please!” Armstrong announces, and Alphonse knows the time bomb is up. Ed knows it too, if his tightening on Alphonse is any indicator, “Please allow me to show my respect!”

“Fuck -” Ed says.

“Is he even allowed to do this -?” A nurse says.

“Major -” Winry says.

But it is all for naught, because the next second Armstrong’s jacket explodes into the shreds, the pieces of the fabric smacking Alphonse in the face and littering the room in a horrible splatter as if someone’s head had just erupted.

Armstrong’s glistening body underneath is blinding, his skin glistening with a shiny layer of sweat that makes his body reflect light to the point it feels like a burning sun is in the room. The man flexes, his glowing biceps forcing Alphonse to have to squint his eyes lest he has his eyesight affected.

Ed screams next to him, something to the effect of “get out of here, weirdo!” but Armstrong continues to cry his praise, Winry is stunned into silence, and the nurses may be crying in defeat.

Indeed, being able to run, to _flee_ , would be a most wondrous ability, if his legs could do more than take a few shaky steps. Running will never be something Alphonse will take for granted, ever again.

 

* * *

 

Alphonse is eventually upgraded to mashed potatoes and sliced beef, and intermittently he is given olives and avocados as well. Sometimes he inadvertently gags, but not because the food itself is unpleasant. The texture and smells prove themselves sometimes disagreeable and alien, feeling completely foreign and wrong. But he at least never fully vomits, and is able to - ultimately - reassure his own body that he isn’t swallowing something that could harm him but rather simple food.

“Don’t force yourself.” Ed says, watching Alphonse eat his potatoes. Their days are spent like this, the two of them in Alphonse’s room and nonchalantly discussing everything and anything, littered in between are doctor and nurse visits to discuss and record Alphonse’s process and to give him food. Winry joins in too, but at the current moment, she has her own errands to run.

“m’Fine,” Alphonse manages with a full mouth, “need t’eat.”

Ed snorts and rolls his eyes, “It isn’t worth it if you hurl it back out, you know.”

Alphonse swallows, and when his mouth is freed he wants to make a proper retort, but is stopped when there is a knock at the door.

“Alphonse Elric,” a nurse says, nodding at his direction as she peeks through the crack of the door, “you have a visitor. Brigadier-General Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye would like to see you, may I let them in?”

He blinks at her, mostly at Mustang’s new title, before he nods. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Alphonse thinks he sees Ed huff out a breath of disapproval, no doubt at the fact he’s now being forced to share proximity with Mustang, and Alphonse internally rolls his eyes at it.

The nurse ducks her head back outside, and through the entrance of his room Mustang and Hawkeye walk in, nodding their own thanks at the nurse before they fix their sights at the Elric brothers.

“Alphonse,” Mustang greets with a slight of his head as Hawkeye closes the door behind them, “I trust your recovery is going well?”

Alphonse nods, a slight smile playing on his lips. “Walking’s tiring, and I need to eat slowly but I’m pretty sure my discharge is on the horizon.”

“That’s good to hear.” Hawkeye says, her own faint smile on her lips. Her voice is a little croaky, and Alphonse sees a scar on her neck.

Alphonse tilts his head, eying Mustang. “You can see.” He says.

Alphonse already knows Mustang’s sight had been restored, along with Havoc’s injured spine with the help of the Philosopher's Stone that was previously offered to him. Still, his last memory of the man had him with blank, unseeing eyes, and to see him now with them restored is startling nonetheless.

“Indeed.” Mustang responds, “I trust Marcoh has told you how?”

“Yeah.” Alphonse says, and Mustang nods. Ed shifts in his seat, and Alphonse decides to change the subject when he turns his attention to Hawkeye.

“How’s your throat?” He asks, and he sees Hawkeye lift a hand to massage at the scar that flows across her neck.

“Seen better days,” she says with a hum. “But it’s fine. Nothing a little TLC won’t fix.”

Alphonse nods, “that’s good.” He turns back to Mustang, “ ‘Brigadier-General Mustang’ is a mouth full.”

Mustang snorts, “and I suppose ‘Brigadier-General Bastard’ doesn’t roll off the tongue as easily as ‘Colonel Bastard.’” He drawls dryly, stealing a glance at Ed.

Ed scoffs, seating himself straighter in his chair, “Nah, that’s why ‘Bastard’ is just fine, Bastard.”

“Poetic.” Mustang says, and Hawkeye shakes her head in amusement.

Ed points a mocking finger Mustang’s way, taking any moment to continue insulting the man, “And it’s not like I have to refer to your rank. You’re not my commanding officer anymore -”

“Was I ever.” Mustang asks rhetorically, giving Ed an exasperated look.

“ - I’ve retired from the military, so I have no obligation to call you anything other than Bastard.” Ed folds his arms triumphantly, giving Mustang a smug look.

Mustang simply stares blankly back “Edward Elric,” he begins, giving Ed a long-suffering look, “there was never a time when you were under my command that you ever felt the need to respect me, and I have never thought you would be capable otherwise. When you ‘retired’ by telling Führer Grumman to, and I quote, _‘fuck off and shove the Fullmetal title up your ass’,_ you only proved that you could be nothing more than a brat, and I sincerely doubt you’ll ever stop being one.”

Now _that’s_ a conversation he has to ask his brother about. It’s so intensely _Ed_ , both in predictability and moronic. Only his brother could be so brash. There’s _definitely_ a story to be told.

Ed looks like he’s two seconds away from leaping from his chair and strangling Mustang, rabid like a dog and snarling. And he would probably do so if Mustang doesn’t casually wave him off and return his attention to Alphonse.   

“But I’m not here to talk to you, Edward.” Mustang says, “I came here to visit the better Elric brother.”

“You honour me.” Alphonse says, and Ed gives him a pointed betrayed look.

“I’m glad to see that your condition is improving, Alphonse.” Mustang continues, ignoring Ed’s fuming. “And know that if you require any assistance, both Hawkeye and myself would be happy to do so.”

Alphonse feels his face flush, and he’s embarrassed at how he needs to avert his eyes from Mustang’s uncharacteristically warm face.

He’s not entirely flustered at Mustang’s soft eyes, faced lined with obvious years of experience softening into something more gentle and - _fuck, was he always that handsome?_ \- but he is moreso taken aback that such high-ranking military officials would even offer such aid to a civilian like _him_. He feels out of place being the target of such pleasantries from the two of them, being as he’s only even followed Ed’s lead when his brother was a State Alchemist. It’s always been Ed who would take direction and Alphonse himself would be his brother’s - _sidekick_.

But, well, he’s always been told he was too modest.

(Maybe it _is_ Mustang’s looks overriding his process of rational thought. Now that's just _unfair_.)

“Thanks.” Alphonse is able to get out, bringing his gaze back up to meet Mustang’s.

Mustang appears he wants to say more, but Hawkeye suddenly steps forward to take a hold of his shoulder.

“Sir,” she says, suddenly professional, “we’re going to be late.”

Mustang scowls, and pulls out a pocket watch to glare at.

“Late?” Ed says, an eyebrow raised, “going on a date, Bastard?”

“Yup.” Mustang says easily, and Ed nearly topples out of his chair, “a date with some very stuffy officials from Xing. Should make for a lovely evening.”

Mustang sighs, straightening himself, “duty calls. Hate to cut things short, but know that our previous offer still stands.”

He nods, curtly to the two of them, before turning to face the door.

Hawkeye likewise gives them a farewell nod, before saying, “take care,” she points suddenly to Edward, eyes sharp, “ _both_ of you.” And she, too, turns to follow Mustang out.

“Yes ma’am.” Ed says hurriedly after her.

Alphonse blinks at their exchange, looking at Ed when Hawkeye closes the door behind them. Something clearly unspoken goes between them, and Alphonse can’t help but feel he’s been left out.

“What?” Ed says, when he realizes his brother is staring at him.

“Nothing,” Alphonse says slowly, squinting suspiciously, “did you get Hawkeye to babysit you?”

Ed reels back, incredulous, “she’s not my _babysitter_ ,” he scoffs, offended. “She’s just -” He waves a hand in the air vaguely, as if that should get the point across.

Alphonse nods slowly, “so she _did_ babysit you. Got it.”

The more he mulls on it, the more it makes sense. During the days Alphonse had his fits, he knows Ed was… Likewise out of it. Distraught and unkempt, and entirely forgetting his own personal health. Hawkeye must have been the voice of reason for him, when he listened.

Ed makes a sputtering sound, “she’s not -” he points angrily at Alphonse, “- my _babysitter_.”

“Sure.” Alphonse says, deliberately making every ounce of sarcasm seep through.

“Fuck you.”

Alphonse snickers, and Ed mumbles something angrily under his breath as he stubbornly folding his arms in front of him.

Alphonse focuses back to his temporarily forgotten meal, and takes another bite of his mashed potatoes.

“We should visit Ling,” he says after swallowing, Xing being brought to the forefront of his mind from Mustang’s mentioning. “And May. And Lan Fan. I miss them.”

Ed hums, still sunken into his chair. “Yeah. Ling still owes me for using half my savings on that endless void he calls a stomach.”

 

* * *

 

He’s blind - his vision sees nothing but a stark, hopeless white. Terrifyingly blank and bare, desolate with no hint of any sort of end. There is no horizon, only a continuation of nothingness.

But he is not blind, though he may as well be with what little there is to see in the void that greets him.

Fear impales him like a spear through the gut, sharp and disemboweling as he turns to survey his surroundings in an attempt to see anything, _anyone._

“Brother?” He asks to the bleak environment, garnering no response, no echo, no other sound. The silence is suffocating, tightening his throat with claws that seek to sear at his skin.

Edward isn’t anywhere to found, nothing is. Not a sight, not a sound, _nothing_. Alphonse is imprisoned in a reality where only despair caresses him, a noose that curls around him without mercy.

“ _Edward?_ ” He tries again, his voice choked and desperate. It’s futile, as nothing answers back, and his brother does not come for him.

He’s alone. No one will come for him, not Edward, not Winry, not Teacher, not anyone. He’s been left behind, a mere memory that will soon fade from all.

He chokes, the oppression of his despair turning fatal - and then a burning sensation starts.

Like a coat of needles that press at his skin, the tearing of flesh pierces at all senses. It crushes him, overpowering, excruciating in its hold as he looks down to see himself being torn at by a slithering pile of tiny black appendages.

The burning is white-hot and unforgiving, and he sees his skin come off in disgusting, squishy chunks, easily sliding off his flesh to reveal a terrifying contrast of red underneath.

He sees himself be torn apart with little effort, feels the void laugh greedily around him as it takes more of his body. He sees himself disappear, and he _screams_ -

The void changes.

The scene is no longer that starkness of nothing, but the blankness of a ceiling. Nothing coats it, but Alphonse can see the separation of tiles, and the faint texture it holds.

He feels every part of him tremble and shake, and for the moment he cannot move his gaze from the ceiling. The scream that had been emitted from his throat in the void is no longer present, his mouth in open in a silent imitation.

Air doesn’t enter him, and his chest tightens painfully when he finally brings in a large gulp of breath. He squeezes his eyes shut at the feeling his lungs, as thought he he inhales sand, stabbing and painful.

But he’s breathing. He’s breathing even though it feels as though he does so underwater. He’s breathing even though he nearly chokes on it, and has to collect more desperate heavings before the pain eventually evens out to a dull ache.

He slowly, sluggishly, brings his eyes open once more, to the ceiling, and brings a shaky hand to his face.

There’s a nose, a mouth, eyes and hair that greet him. His skin is wet and hot, covered in an uncomfortable sheen of sweat. It makes the fabric that he wears tightly stick to him, and he wishes to rip it from himself.

He swallows thickly, cringing at how it burns, but he has a body. He has his body.

His mind is a fervent haze, his head in a vice grip, but he lays upon something soft.

Turning his head he finds that he is on a bed, and it grates against his skin. He wants to vacate it, to strip himself from the clothing that suffocates him, but his body is numb and feeble, and he can barely lift a hand without great effort. His own mind is uncooperative, unwilling to clear itself from the haze.

Instead, he decides to take stock of where he is. His eyes feel heavy, and his vision produces a double image but he sees that - He’s in -

A hospital. Yes.

He has been for -

He’s been here for a while.

He breathes, slowly, counting each inhale and exhale, and attempts to center himself. He can physically _feel_ the memories that are in his mind, frustratingly out of reach, and so he attempts to grasp them with clammy hands.

He sees a table next to his bed - _where he would place finished dishes after eating_ \- and a chair, empty - _where Ed would always sit_ -

The visual of Ed casually leaning into his chair while spouting whatever nonsense they had been conversing about nearly makes Alphonse choke.

His brother would practically be attached to Alphonse at the hip with how he established himself as a frequent guest in Alphonse’s stay. His older brother would always sit with him and talk about whatever came across his mind, and he would always offer to help Alphonse in whatever way possible, no matter how small.

Edward was always with him, a stable, comforting presence, one that would occasionally sleep in the same room with him in that very chair.   

The chair now is empty - Edward finding his own bed, at the request of hospital staff, of Hawkeye, and his own back that sought a comfortable position to lay in for sleep.

But - his brother was with him. His brother brought him back.

Edward had walked with him through the Gate.

Alphonse sags into his bed, bringing both quivering hands to cover his moist face. He rubs at his cheek, in a vain attempt to alleviate the sweat and tears that sleek it, and he becomes boneless.

He sighs. The sound is heavy in the silent room.

He’s alive. He remembers. He’s fine.

_He’s fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: i only got into FMA last month, after binging brotherhood and then reading the manga. in 2010, not knowing ANYTHING about the thing, I saw that scene where al goes “fuck yeah!” when winry says granny’s making stew from the bloopers. For the longest time i literally thought that scene was canon because i didn’t know it was a blooper, and for the longest time i just assumed one of alphonse’s enduring character traits was that he just really, really liked stew. It’s just stuck as a headcanon for me ever since lol  
> anyway, there should only be one more chapter. if it turns out longer I will eat my feet. please remind me that if i ever do a multi-chaptered fic again, to plan shit out first.  
> well, hope you enjoyed! thanks for reading! ^^


	4. The Sun Rises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please heed the new tags. Alphonse self harms because experiences bouts of dissociation/depression and needs to reaffirm to himself he has a body. I know, obviously, that this can be a sensitive subject for some people and have preemptively marked such sections with a *** as a forewarning and for those who wish to skip it.

True to Teacher’s words, when Alphonse is discharged from Central Hospital, she has the lot of them - Ed, Winry and himself - head straight for Dublith.

He certainly doesn’t mind such, though he also thinks she wouldn’t have let him leave to anywhere else regardless. She probably would have physically taken him to Dublith even if he protested - it’s not like it would have been an exceptionally difficult task to accomplish, considering he cannot walk long distances without needing a break in between. And while he can walk, he cannot do so without a cane to assist him, and the action itself leaves him very fatigued, very quickly.

But he hadn’t been planning to object to visiting Dublith and having Teacher, in her words, “ _stuff him until he can run and fight, and he’s not leaving until he can block a punch and swing a kick_ ” anyway.  

As Teacher makes it so engaging in physical combat with her is Alphonse’s only admission for eventually leaving her abode, Alphonse settles himself as her official houseguest, under her roof for an undetermined amount of time.  

His departure of the hospital is an event that has more attendees than he thought it would. Military personnel present on the Promised Day and various hospital staff - ranging from Dr. Warren and Marcoh and some nurses - make themselves present to see him off.

He’s barely met some of them, and he has barely enough time to even make a proper introduction of himself and to say ‘thank you’, before he is barraged with multiple people giving out their mountains of well wishes and amical send offs. Alphonse would almost assume Ed went about hiring professional farewell guests, because having people he’s only ever shared a word or two with taking such genuine interest in his health and discharge is bewildering, to say the least.

Ed and Winry both make it seem that it is something that is obvious. That _of course,_ everyone and anyone would want to see him off. That _of course_ , everyone and anyone would like to see him leave the hospital on his two wobbly legs and see with their own eyes that he is healthy. Ed makes it seem like Alphonse is stupid for not knowing that he apparently has some aura that has all within his vicinity want to mother him. He replies with another “ _everyone likes you, dumbass._ ” when Alphonse makes a comment about it. An objective fact, like how the Earth orbits around the Sun, _apparently_.

Alphonse suspects it’s because for those present on the Promised Day, who only knew him by word of mouth, saw him one moment as a hulking suit of armour, and then suddenly a skinny, emaciated kid. A frail boy who most certainly could not have been able to maneuvor in such a large set of armour, and are still trying to rationalize what they saw. It is probably more out of bafflement that they see him off.

Alphonse does not mind either way, he thinks the thought of some of his visitors attempting to find logic in how the Fullmetal Alchemist’s brother suddenly became a weak corpse-look-alike is rather funny. And he isn’t about to explain the full story for them regardless.

(The fact of his soul having difficulties reattaching itself was something kept to a select few, and he does not wish to broadcast that to the world. He’d rather not have others think him a potential science experiment).

He thinks the general confusion of how the eight foot tall suit of armour turning into a feeble teenager could make for a good mystery story for those who witnessed it. He can already picture slurred attempts of explanation between drinking friends, and who is he to deny them the luxury of creating such a fable through lack of context?

While Alphonse needs the assist of a cane to walk, he is fully able to walk by _himself._ His cheeks are still somewhat hollow, and his body weight isn't optimal, but his ribs do not poke through his skin, and he can eat with little difficulty. If he eats a consistent diet, and allows his muscles to develop, he’ll be fine. He doesn't think it will take too long, considering Teacher has decided to be his unofficial babysitter to oversee his final stages of recovery.

But he is healthy enough to take care himself and therefore healthy enough to leave. And being able to walk out of the hospital on his own feet, with his brother by his side acting as a safety net if he were to stumble. Winry is beside him as well, having decided to accompany them to Dublith as well.

Alphonse is dressed neatly in a shirt, vest, pants and shoes that sit comfortably on his skin - it’s a moment he’d almost could think as cheesy, with how the doors leading to the outside could be described gleaming with a heavenly light as he walks towards it.

Very, _very_ cheesy. He’s almost glad when Teacher’s husband meets him halfway with a hug that nearly snaps him in half.

Ed, however, decidedly thinks such an action warrants him yapping at Sig like a small dog to let Al go, that his little brother is still recovering, and what are you doing, crushing a sick kid like a bear, you brute.

None of which actually gets Sig to let Al go as he continues to embrace him, asserting through his own teary eyes of how good it is to see Al.

It’s almost an uncanny reflection of Armstrong - almost. But to insinuate it mirrors completely would be a disservice to Sig; Armstrong’s embraces are distinctly sweaty and uncomfortable, regardless of how well intended the man is. Sig’s hug are entirely more comforting, and one Al fully reciprocates when he is able to regain his bearings and clasp at the larger man back.

It’s pleasant, even if it is all the same suffocating with how the man constricts him. Likewise, Sig’s cooing isn’t as dramatic or stifling, but it is wholly more reassuring with a simple statement of “ _I’m proud of you._ ”    

When Sig does eventually let him go, he does so with a firm pat on his shoulder which nearly knocks the wind right out of Alphonse. Ed makes a disapproving grunt as he secures himself to Al’s side and holds at his little brother’s shoulder, even though Alphonse can stand on his own. The action itself is sweet, but also annoying at the same time.

Winry rolls her eyes and lightly punches at Ed’s side, asking if he is related to chickens as he acts so much like a mother hen.

Ed scoffs, and Teacher barks out a laugh. Sig, likewise, lets out a snigger as he folds his arms.

Alphonse re-establishes his balance with his cane, as he watches on fondly as Ed and Winry dissolve into a playful argument. The world around him ceases to exist completely as he settles himself comfortably in the bubble with his family. It’s snug and comforting, and as they make their ways towards the exit of the hospital to head for the train station to proceed to Dublith, it’s something Alphonse thinks he could indefinitely submerse himself within.

 

* * *

 

“Enjoying yourself?”

Ed's question makes Alphonse bring his head up from where it sits, within a park upon a bench that is bathed beneath the shadow of a large oak tree.

Dublith’s botanical gardens prove to be an agreeable alternative route back towards Teacher's house. Ed leans over the bench’s backend, flanking Alphonse’s side as Winry busies herself inspecting a nearby rose bush.

Alphonse taps at his cane with a finger, turning his face upwards to lazily gaze at the mosaic of sunlight breaking through the foliage of the tree that paints the area above him. The wind is calm, and provides a subtle choir that relaxes him.

“Certainly.” He replies easily. This is not their first detour into the gardens - in fact it is their second - and Alphonse thinks it won't be their last either.

The gardens are peaceful, and one of the first things Alphonse chose to visit upon arriving to Dublith three days prior. His initial visit was when he and Ed choose to take a diversion when returning from sending a letter to Central of Alphonse's declination of military service.

( _“He what?” Ed growls, a certain venom laces his words that has become uniquely tied to any discussion relating to Mustang._

_“Mustang thinks I could be a good fit for a State Alchemist.” Alphonse restates with a sigh. Mostly at Ed’s exasperating penchant of becoming aggravated by the mere mentioning of the man._

_Ed sits across from him, within Teacher’s house in her living room after Alphonse had remembered an Officer had given him an envelope when he was being discharged from Central Hospital. The Officer had quickly and curtly explained that Mustang had sent her as a courier, and that both he and Hawkeye apologized for being able to visit to see him off. Likewise, she detailed that the letter within the envelope was something Mustang had stressed, while important, was something he didn’t need to read right away and to instead focus on recovering fully._

_Seeing the official military seal the letter had been stamped with was enough to convince Ed he needed Alphonse to tell him what it said._

_“You just got out of the hospital!” Ed asserts, disbelieving and disapproving._

_Ed speaks the truth, they had only just arrived at Dublith. Alphonse initially forgot he even had the thing, too wrapped up with feeling the sun on his skin to really think it as a priority._

_Ed continues, and Alphonse thinks to tune his brother’s rant out as he thinks upon the letter._

_“Who does this Bastard think he is?” Ed gnarls, and Alphonse rolls his eyes. “Trying to recruit you after you just got out of the fucking hospital? Who does that?”_

_Alphonse only hums half-heartedly in response, keeping his eyes at the words on the page. Mustang details that Alphonse is an accomplished and efficient alchemist, one who could be an invaluable asset within the Military if he chooses to accept the offer. Having seen Alphonse’s alchemy first hand, Mustang already knows that Alphonse could easily become a State Alchemist. Alphonse knows becoming an official alchemist of the Military would grant him privileges of research and a steady source of income, and a title that would give him access to areas and support that regular civilians would never be otherwise allowed to. He knows such first hand, being Ed’s shadow during his time as a State Alchemist._

_Likewise, he also knows first hand how the Military can be manipulative, corruptible, devastating and an overall shitshow being Ed’s shadow. He isn’t sure he wants his name associated with it, even if he were to get some cool moniker to go by. He’s doubtful he’d get the “Fullmetal Alchemist” title if he were to enlist. Regardless of the fact the Father has been dealt with, the bureaucracy of the Military isn’t an enticing prospect._

_Mustang makes it at least known that both he and Hawkeye, with mentions of Team Mustang, are all willing to assist him in whatever way possible in recovery or whatever path he chooses, Military career or not._

_Mustang also details that his open-ended invitation to the Military is not an attempt to replace Edward. Merely that Alphonse’s own abilities would make him a beneficial State Alchemist._

_Something unpleasant curls within Alphonse’s gut. Deep and nauseating, prickling throughout him at the fact that Ed’s alchemy has ceased to exist because of him. It makes him grip at the paper more tightly, creasing it at the frames._

_Alphonse sighs and rubs his face, attempting to sooth the guilt he feels as it unsettles itself. Ed has gone quiet, staring at him with an odd expression._

_“Are you thinking of accepting?” Ed asks, and his voice is carefully blank._

_He hadn’t, not really. He’s had enough military service to last a lifetime, even if he was never actually officially enlisted and acted only as as a civilian._

_“No.” Alphonse says, truthfully while leaning back against the couch he sits upon, “because you and Teacher would kill me if I did.”_

_Alphonse is a year shy of adulthood, and he knows he can make such life-defining decisions even at the censure of his family. He can make decisions for himself, but he finds Ed making an impression regardless. But it is not Ed’s own discontent that has him make his decision with little thought. It is the guilt that drills a hole within at the idea of himself using his alchemy as a career when Ed no longer can that does._

_Ed snorts, and seemingly relaxes all over. “Good. Tell Bastard to fuck off.”_

_“You’re always so elegant, brother.” Alphonse replies dryly as Ed stands to make a move towards the kitchen._

_He might as well write back now, he thinks. Ed will accompany him to the post office, precisely for the fact it will take Alphonse four breaks to catch his breath in between the walk to and fro.)_

Edward hums in response, a small nod as he peers the clear view of the gardens in front of them. There are a few other visitors with them, but they are sparse and allow for a comfortable silence to be adopted between them. The gentle din of calm air is relaxing, and Alphonse can hear faintly a buzz of a busy bee to his right.

“We should visit the lake, sometime.” Ed says, quirking his head to his brother. Alphonse gives him a sidelong glance, before nodding.

“Hopefully Teacher doesn’t strand us on Yock Island again.” Alphonse says.

Ed immediately has a shiver course through him, and makes a small disgusted noise.  
“Don’t give her ideas.” Ed replies.

“Give who what ideas?” Winry’s voice brings both the Elrics to turn their heads to their left, as she approaches from investigating the nearby flora.

“Don’t mention Yock Island to Teacher,” Ed supplies, drawing himself to his full height as he stretches his back. “She might get the idea it would be fun to camp there.”

“And camping there is bad because…?” She asks, with a tilt of the head, clearly prompting him to continue.

“You like ants?” Ed says, and Alphonse snorts. “Because all you’re gonna be eating is ants if we go there.”

Winry arches a brow and her face wears a doubtful expression, although she is interested all the same.

“Well,” Winry says, as she goes to walk onto the trail the bench is next to, “you can tell me all your horror stories while go back to Mrs. Curtis’s place.”

She turns to face them again, locking onto Alphonse specifically, “unless you want to sit some more?”

“Ah-” Alphonse starts, shifting in his seat. “-you can go on ahead without me. You don’t have to wait.”

He’s sheepish, waving his hand slightly in an attempt to dissuade any concern for his well being.

There are times wherein their - well, specifically _Edward’s_ \- rapt attention to his health can become burdensome. The first few times when Ed had offered to carry him were endearing, but his brother’s self-appointed responsibility to be Alphonse’s sole walking aid are at times annoying. Any stumble, any shakiness, any decrease in speed and Ed is immediately glued to his side.

Alphonse is _thankful_ \- grateful to have a brother that cares for him so deeply - but he can walk. He can walk on his _own_ , and he will not be blown away by a simple gust of wind, and Alphonse attempts to remind his brother such.

But there are also times wherein his own sluggishness and need for other’s patience makes _him_ feel like a burden.

Because he is slow. He cannot run, and walking takes much effort that leaves him breathless very easily. Never mind the fact he makes walks that are meant to be only twenty minutes stretch into an hour when he goes into a stupor whenever he _touches_ anything.

He can’t be blamed for the fact - but that doesn’t make it any less embarrassing when he realizes he’s been entrenched for ten minutes when his hand had brushed up against the brick walling of a house, and the rough texture demanded his full attention.

Lord knows Alphonse made the trip to the post office take an illegal amount of time to accomplish with having to investigate every touch - every _smell_ \- of _every_ plant.

The others never make a fuss about it. They’re amused by it, and Ed especially has a certain stupid smile when he catches Alphonse doing it. But that does not stop him from adopting the visage of a tomato when he returns back to Earth.

He sits upon the bench in the park not because he wishes to stay beneath the tree, but because he felt he were about to faint with another step in their excursion into the gardens.

He is still recuperating from such, and does not wish to be a stone that ties down Edward and Winry when they could continue enjoying the gardens.

But of course, the two do not notice his attempt at giving them freedom.

Winry scoffs, “you’re not getting rid of us that easily.”

Ed pokes at the back of Alphonse’s lightly from behind of the bench, “yeah, you’re stuck with us.”

“Damn.” Alphonse mutters, shaking off Ed’s poke, “and here I thought I could go prancing in the flowers in private.”

Ed throws his head back in a laugh as Winry giggles, and when his older brother recovers he says, “nah, we’ll always wait for you.”  
The sentiment is so disgustingly sincere Alphonse needs to look down at his hands as he fiddles with his cane. It should be a crime with how _sappy_ Ed can get.

“Your loss.” Alphonse says, with a slight shake of the head.

 

* * *

 

He is encased within thorns, piercing and sharp as all the daggers stab into his skin. White hot and searing, Alphonse attempts to gasp for any sort of relieving breath of air to soothe himself, only to find that his own lungs are frozen in ice.

His eyes only grant him a vision of darkness, outlines being blurry and indistinct. His chest heaves in a painful contortion, as if it all collapses in of itself in a terrible whirlwind.

For a long, horrible moment, he is utterly lost. Lost in the confusion that makes an unfathomable hurricane that makes it feel as though he is trapped within the void once more.

It is when his vision eventually adjusts to the darkness of the night that envelops his room that the merciless grip that holds his mind finally relents. It is when he can see the ceiling above him that he finally able to feel the body in which he inhabits.

Alphonse gasps, deep and needy, and it burns his chest. He winces, a flinch that quakes throughout his entire being, and he groans.

Alphonse has been at Teacher’s house for two weeks, and he has had twelve nightmares. Seven of which have had him awoken into a uncomfortable sweat that sticks to him like an unfitted suit, convulsing in silent screams like he is now. The five other nights he dreamt of the void, he was fortunate enough to only awake in a pool of his sweat - his body was quiet, and his mind able to make bearings. They had all made him awake in the middle of the night in some unsightly hour, wherein he would lay in his bed - painfully awake and unable to sleep - awaiting the light of the sun. It starkly mirrors the nights when he inhabited his metal body.  

Alphonse lets out a shaky sigh, bringing his trembling hands to rub at his face, to clean at his vision and his cheeks. The feeling of his hands - of _flesh_ \- has he still and simply lay in his dishevelled sheets and basking into the feeling. It anchors him, physically and mentally, and reassures himself that what he has is no longer made of metal, no longer cold.

When he settles his hands to his sides and stares at nothing, he distantly thinks about how thankful he is that his unpleasant awakenings are silent. A byproduct of the fact he cannot _breath_ the very moments he returns to the real world.

He merely gapes like a fish when he wakes, but at least such an action only wounds at his pride, and it does not stir others from their own sleep. Edward and Teacher have done enough for him. The thought of them getting their sleep interrupted and the ensuing worrying over him is mortifying.

He swallows, and it mirrors the breath he took in: painful and scratching. His mouth agonizingly dry, a mock impression of the desert and he nearly gags at the sensation of what little saliva he had in his mouth attempt to traverse down his throat, mimicking a ball of nails.

Alphonse knows he will not sleep tonight. And with a mouth and throat that scorches from being barren, he makes the decision to tip-toe downstairs and get a glass of water.

He carefully lifts himself from his bed, careful not to disturb his brother as he lays in a bed that is opposite from his own - the two of them sharing Teacher’s own guest room, Winry having deciding to sleep on her couch for the two days she had stayed before leaving back to Resembool.

He steals a glance towards Ed’s direction - only to still immediately, halting completely as the sight paints something different.

Where Ed was supposed to be, contorted in whatever horrid sleeping position, instead lay an empty bed.

Alphonse finds himself blinking, almost thinking it a trick of the eye, a trick of the lighting, only to confirm that yes: Ed is not in bed, he is not in the room with him.

Probably using the bathroom. Or unable to sleep, and deciding to - read in another room? Alphonse isn’t sure. What he is certain of is that his throat is screaming at him to get hydrated, and his brother’s late night activities can take a back burner to what is actually necessary.

He tranverses as carefully as he can. Or as carefully one could while inhabiting a body that still suffers from the aftereffects of a nightmare that leaves him trembling. At least he does not depend on a cane, though at the current moment it feels at though he needs to.

When downstairs, another sight has him stop once more to observe it fully.

The doorway to the kitchen seeps with it a cascade of light. Someone already occupies the space, and it gives Alphonse pause.

When he moves again, he carefully sneaks across the wall. He does not do so out of some vague misconception that an intruder is in the house (he, as well as everyone in Dublith, and anyone with any sense, know not to even attempt to trespass on Teacher’s property), he is cautious for the very fact that Ed’s bed is empty, and the kitchen light is on. He already knows his brother is there, and would prefer it if at all he could channel his inner stealth artist and quench his thirst, settle back to bed, without disturbing Ed at all.

Peaking around the entryway, he sees his brother. Ed’s back is facing him, his hair a bed-ridden tassel that loosely spills over his shoulders.

Ed is drinking water. His head his tipped back and he leans against the sink with his other unoccupied arm as he sips out of a glass.

When Ed gives out a light sigh after downing the glass and places it on the counter, Alphonse thinks to let down this juvenile attempt at avoiding his brother and to walk in and announce his presence. Ed has gotten up because he was thirsty - Alphonse will respond in kind when asked why he is up. It’s not like he would be lying. Technically.

But before he can actually emit a sound at all, the shattering of glass on the floor interrupts him.

Ed, still in his own sluggish, sleepish state, clearly did not secure the glass’s position. Either it was too precariously near the edge or he accidentally knocked it over, Alphonse isn’t sure. But the glass breaks, and the sound sharply puncates throughout the silence like a stabbing in the gut.

Ed mutters a curse, quickly stepping away from the shards.

Alphonse takes a half step and opens his mouth to ask if his brother needs help - but his throat is dry and he is unable to make a coherent sound, and another sight makes him pause for the third time that evening.

Ed gets down into his knees, muttering something indistinct to Alphonse, but it does not matter because what Ed does next makes the beginnings of a hole pollute into his chest.

The clap his brother does shatters the silence like the glass had done, and he then firmly places he hands onto the ground near the shards.

Alphonse knows his brother doing the simple alchemy of fixing a glass, of which should only take not even a minute to complete.

But of course nothing happens.

The resounding silence is suffocating. Seeing his brother’s frame suddenly stiffen at realization has Alphonse’s stomach in knots.

“Oh.” Ed says, slowly lifting his hands to look at them, “...right.”

Seeing Ed sit on the floor, staring at his hands as he flexes them in silence, unsettles something deep within Alphonse. It reminds him of the feeling of the nightmares. He doesn’t like it.

“Brother.” Alphonse croaks without realizing it, and Ed immediately whips his head towards Alphonse’s direction.

“Alphonse,” Ed replies, a slight creasing of his brows as he moves himself to stand. “What are you doing up?”

Alphonse stands at the doorway awkwardly. His first attempt to reply is thwarted by his sore throat, but on his second try he manages to say, “thirsty.”

Ed nods, “you sound like shit.”

Alphonse wants to reply that he feels the part, but merely snorts as he walks into the threshold of the kitchen. He attempts to mask his own trembling by rubbing at his arms, feigning coldness.

Alphonse points a meek finger at the shards of glass, “you need help with that?”  
Ed gives a quick glance to the broken mosaic that litters the floor, before looking back at Alphonse.

“Nah,” Ed says, waving dismissively, “you get a drink. Wouldn’t want you to die of thirst.”

Alphonse merely nods as a reply. He would persist in assistance, but he is simply too tired, and instead settles to grabbing himself a glass as Ed opens a cupboard to procure a dustpan.

The only thing that orchestrates between them is Alphonse using the tap to retrieve water, and Ed bending down to sweep up the glass. The dull clinking of gathered glass and Alphonse’s silent sipping would almost be comfortable, but Alphonse - and Ed, he’d imagine - is exhausted, and shimmers of guilt still remain within him. The thoughts that swirl in his head, blaming himself for Ed’s lack of alchemy, are nauseating.

He downs the glass, the relief of the cold water on his parched tongue is a little comfort. Alphonse wishes to drink it one swift motion so he can retreat back into the relative safety of his bed, and pretend sleep.

Ed, however, speaks when he empties the dustpan of glass into the garbage.

“I was thirsty, too.” It sounds suspiciously like an excuse. Alphonse does not think his brother speaks the full truth. Even in his tired state, he can pick up on his brother’s guarded body language.

“Right.” Alphonse says, unsure yet if he wishes to - or has the energy to - further pursue Ed’s actual reasoning to being up.

“Don’t make breaking my things a habit, Edward.”

Teacher’s sudden voice nearly makes Alphonse drop his own glass as he jumps. Ed, too, has a similar reaction, jolting in place as the two whip their heads at the entryway where Teacher stands leaning against the doorframe.

She had not made a single sound, and Alphonse knows he cannot blame his own tiredness for his, and his brother’s, lack of awareness and not noticing her. She is simply devastatingly quiet.

Edward immediately bows his head, “sorry, Teacher.”

Teacher simply waves her hand, “it’s fine. Just try to be more careful next time.”

Ed nods, and goes to put away the dustpan he holds. Alphonse re-secures his own hold on his glass, and thinks to apologise to Teacher for clearly waking her, but she speaks first.

“Since you both are clearly avoiding the subject,” she says dryly, stepping into the kitchen and both Alphonse and Ed obediently listen and look at her.

She gives them both a hard look. It isn’t angry, but stern.

“The nightmares do not go away.” She states, curtly, simply. She folds her arms in front of her, glancing between the two of them. Despite himself, Alphonse takes a sharp intake of air.

Teacher sighs, closing her eyes, and when she re-opens them, they are more soft. Not pitying, but understanding.

She does not even have to elaborate, they all know what _kinds_ of nightmares she means.

“They will lessen, in due time.” She goes on, her voice solemn, “but they won’t truly disappear. So there’s no use in trying to pretend they don’t exist.”

Alphonse looks down at his hands, still holding the glass. His own shame slowly curls around him, of clearly not being subtle enough at the dreams that plague him. Even if it’s Teacher, wherein nothing goes past her, but the fact that now Ed will know that he continues to wake in a cold sweat every other night makes him feel blame.

“A staunch reminder of the taboo we’ve done.” She says, heavy and somber, “a resuming byproduct. So do not pretend you’re immune to them.”

The last bit of her sentence is more serious, and her gaze has adopted her steely gaze once more.

She pierces specifically at Alphonse, and her gaze almost makes Alphonse fumble.

“You haven’t had a body for five years.” She says, simply, “I suppose it’s your turn to catch up, unfortunately.”

Alphonse blinks. He hadn’t thought it that way. He sees from his peripheral Ed look at him.

Of course Teacher would know he’s been having an abundance of nightmares where his flesh is stripped from him, reliving the first time it had happened in the void. He doesn’t know why he thought she _wouldn’t_ know.

Still. Having Teacher’s and Ed’s gaze on him makes him uncomfortable.

“You can wake me, whenever.” Teacher says, and she turns her eyes on Edward, “ _both_ of you.”

Being addressed has Ed jump slightly, looking back at Izumi.

“Y-yes, Teacher.” He replies, probably more out of habit of having to reply to her than any actual sincere confirmation. Alphonse thinks, vaguely, that Ed won’t attempt to wake Teacher regardless. His own stubbornness to shoulder things alone an unhealthy habit.

She hums, giving a small nod.

“You both should go back to bed soon.” She says, “we will rise up early to spar.”

And with that, she turns on her heel and leaves the kitchen swiftly without another word.

The two of them silently stand where they are, before Alphonse looks at his brother.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were still having nightmares?” Alphonse asks.

He knows he doesn’t have any right to feel - _offended_ , at his brother’s secrecy. He’s being a hypocrite, seeing as he has kept his own nightmares from his brother. But it still does not stop him from feeling deceived from his brother, of being _lied_ to. Ed has long had nightmares in the months following their sin, and many a night Alphonse would find his brother crying and hoarsely screaming. Practically every night Ed would ask Alphonse sit and stand watch as he slept, until his older brother’s guilt had him ask Alphonse to cease his given role as nightly observer. He had reassured Alphonse it was because the nightmares ceased, but now Alphonse knows that was a lie.

Ed swallows, opening his mouth before closing it.

“I-” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his head, “I didn’t… want you to worry.”

Of course that was the reason. It was _Alphonse’s_ own reason. It makes any ire Alphonse had immediately dissipate. What replaces it is a simple, tired hollowness.

Ed looks at him, “why didn’t _you_ tell me you were having nightmares?”

Alphonse doesn’t have a reason. Or at least he doesn’t want to parrot Ed’s own words, but he doesn’t need to. Ed seems to realize it as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Ed sighs, rubbing his face, “wake me up next time.” he makes a move towards the doorway, “c’mon, we should sleep. Need as much energy as we can get before we get our asses beat tomorrow.”

Alphonse nods before giving a snort, sets the glass in the sink, and follows his brother.

 

* * *

 

True to Teacher’s words once more, Alphonse is only allowed to leave her care after he is fit enough to train with her. Or at least, hold his own long enough that she deems acceptable, to which she promptly wipes the floor with him with ease.

Not that Alphonse has ever thought he would _best_ her, but he’ll count actually being able to properly spar with her as a victory regardless. Even if it ends up in his muscles screaming at him, with him on his back in the dirt with the air knocked clean out of him, after Teacher had literally thrown him above her head.

“Well done, Alphonse.” Teacher beams, smug at his capabilities of being able to fully spar. She lends out an arm and helps him to his feet as he attempts to level his breathing.

“Now you can get beat up like the rest of us.” Ed says, slapping him on the shoulder with a bright smile, having likewise been bathed in the dirt by Teacher beforehand.

“Wow,” Alphonse says, trying to wipe away the dirt that clings to him, “dreams really do come true.”

Departure from Teacher’s abode is one filled with back backing hugs, from both Teacher and her husband, and ruffles of hair - also both from Teacher and her husband. Recovering from snapped spines, Alphonse and his brother quickly catch a train to Resembool. The trip there is comfortably silent, for the most part. Alphonse enjoys losing himself to the scenery that passes by, even if he has already seen it multiple times.

When they do arrive at Resembool, and make the trek back towards home, the sun is near the horizon.

The sky is bathed in a pleasant gradient of soft hues of orange and purple. It paints the sky in a magnificent vibrance, and has Alphonse stop in his tracks on the pathway that goes uphill that they’ve walked on numerous times.

There is nothing new of the sunset, and it is not like he could not appreciate them with his metal body. But the air is warm, and the wind caresses him gently, and it makes him feel at peace.  

Ed has walked a few paces ahead, before stopping and noticing his brother has stopped.

“Pretty today.” Ed says, putting his hands in his pockets at he looks at the sun set.

“Yeah.” Alphonse replies, before he goes to move onwards again, hauling his luggage with him.

When the two finally reach home, the world is submerged in a light, inky darkness. Not so much it blinds all vision, but indigo douses all surroundings.

It does not take long for Winry to answer the door when Ed raps his knuckles on it. It does not take long for Winry to pounce and nearly knock them both down. It does not take long for Den to come bounding down joining in on the pile with a parade of barks and tail wags that seek to break bones.

The dog stills, however, when he lays his sights on Alphonse. He quirks his head quizzically up towards his direction, and his tail pauses mid wag.

“Hey, Den.” Alphonse says, giving his hand out for the dog to sniff. It’s been far too long since he’s properly greeted his canine friend. “It’s me, Alphonse. You remember, the big metal guy?”

Ed snorts at his greeting, and Den tilts his head, inspecting at Alphonse’s outstretched hand as he gives a curious sniff.

It takes a small moment, but Den’s tail starts to wag again in earnest. He lets out a small whine, hopping on his feet before he lets out a loud bark and leaps up at Alphonse’s chest with scrabbling paws.

Den’s tongue bombards at Alphonse’s face, and he has to tilt his head backwards lest he receive a mask of slobber.

Alphonse laughs, “I missed you too, buddy!”

“Don’t let the mongrel maul you.” Ed says in jest, turning his attention to the house. “Let’s go wake up that old crone.”

“And steal all our food.” Winry adds, making sure Den doesn’t maul Alphonse with kisses, “missed you guys.”

“Missed you too.” Alphonse manages, finally able to push Den downwards and free himself from the canine’s unrelenting love. Den bounds happily around the trio, following them into the house.

When Alphonse walks in, he’s immediately engulfed by the soothing environment of the interior. He sighs, basking it in, before Edward interrupts him.

“You don’t have to do that, you know.” His brother says, a quirked brow.

Alphonse blinks, “do what?”

“Bend under the doorways.” Winry supplies.

“Yeah,” Ed continues, “hate to break it to ya, but you’re not that tall anymore.”

Ed is playfully mocking, and does not wait for Alphonse to respond as he sets to setting down his luggage of clothing on the table. Winry snickers, and it takes a moment for what his brother has said to sink in.

Alphonse looks at the doorframe, significantly higher than what it once was to him.

“Right.” Alphonse says, to himself rather than an answer. He smiles as he closes the door.   

 

* * *

 

Waking in the middle of the night hard of breath and suffering from asphyxiation is an unfortunate routine, but at the very least Alphonse has a _little_ peace of mind that it will eventually dwindle. Even if these nightmares do not fully disappear, Alphonse thinks he is willing to give up an arm for them to cease happening every week.

He does not think he has even slept an hour before he is awoken to visions of being torn apart by a slithering pit of hands. He finds himself unable to properly breath, not only from the nightmare itself but by the fact he’s evidently trapped himself in a cocoon of his blankets.

Once lucid enough, he’s able to sluggishly free himself from the sheets’ clinging embrace.

He merely sits for a moment, among the ruins of his blankets that are streaked with his sweat. His eyes sit as stones in his skull, and even though - in comparison to other experiences - the nightmare itself was short and not as intense, his head throbs with a migraine he loathes to admit he’s long since become familiar with.

He sighs, moving his sheets aside to hop out of bed. He might as well give himself some water to drink, before going back to bed. At the very least, he thinks he could go back to sleep afterwards.

He has never minded sharing a room with Edward, but there is something relieving being able to sleep on his own. And being able to wake himself from nightmares on his own without the worry of disturbing others. The two do not share the same room in this house.

He yawns as he makes his way to the kitchen, but finds himself in a position that brings up the memory when he found Ed up in Teacher’s kitchen.

But it is not the kitchen that is already preoccupied, but the living room that Alphonse would need to traverse through to get to his desired location.

He hears voices - Edward and Winry - and knows this night, it is not because Ed was disturbed by another nightmare, but because Alphonse had simply gone to bed before him.

Alphonse plans on simply walking by and greeting them, explaining he needs water (and if pressed, he’ll confess he’s had another nightmare), but slows to a stop when he hears his brother’s voice.

“ _-I just feel… stifled._ ” Ed says when Alphonse clears his hearing, and leans near the door frame. “ _Jittery. Like I need to be doing something._ ”

He shouldn’t stop, and he certainly shouldn’t _eavesdrop_. But the infliction of his brother’s voice - unsure, quiet, _vulnerable_ \- gives him pause.

“But you are doing things,” he hears Winry respond, and he can imagine that she sits on the couch next to Ed with a hand on his shoulder, _“you help around the house and with the neighbours_.”

Ever since arriving back at Resembool, Ed had quickly gotten into the habit of busying himself with literally anything he could be doing. House repair, chores, gardening, pestering Winry, lending his hand to the neighbours who live miles away. He hadn’t noticed, but Alphonse know realizes that _of course_ , he’s brother had did so because he was restless.

“ _I know… But… It’s not…_ ” Ed mumbles.

“ _Enough?_ ” Winry finishes.

“ _Yeah. Sorry_.” Another mumble, accompanied with a sigh.

“ _It’s okay."_   Winry says, and Alphonse hears the rubbing of fabric and thinks Winry is rubbing his brother’s shoulder, “ _I guess it’s hard to settle down after… everything_.”

Alphonse could laugh, and he nearly does, but he merely gives out a light snort at it. He thinks he may have disturbed them, to which he readies himself to make his presence known but he hears Ed’s voice again.

“ _Yeah… Yeah. I don’t know what to do._ ” Edward says, “ _I thought everything would be easier now, since Al’s got his body back and everything.”_ A pause, before continuing. _“But… I’m just… Lost. Everything I’ve done was to get Al’s -_ our” he says the word more harshly, as if attempting to hammer into himself that their quest was for them _both_ , _“- bodies back, that was the only thing - the only thing I thought about. Only thing I cared about. Only thing I prepared for. And now I don’t know what to do._ ”

Alphonse swallows thickly with the ensuing short silence.

“ _You don’t_ have _to do anything. You’ve done enough._ ” Winry says, and Alphonse agrees full heartedly. He almost makes a move to walk inwards to say so.

“ _I feel like I’m getting strangled, Winry._ ” Ed responds, a twinge irritation lining his voice. “ _I - fuck. I’m sorry_.” His voice deflates. " _I thought coming back would feel good, but Resembool is  - it’s suffocating. I’m sorry. You deserve something better than my complaining._ ”

“ _Oh, sure._ ” Winry says, and Alphonse can hear her eye roll. “ _But you’re my friend and your problems are my problems, I want to make sure you’re alright._ ”

Silence fills between them, and Alphonse’s throat feels tight.

Ed is the first to break the quiet,“ _I miss doing alchemy._ ”

There’s a shuffling of movement, and Alphonse knows it is the sound of Winry coming closer to his brother’s side. But it’s almost indiscernible, because Edward’s words have Alphonse lock up as a stiff board.   

“ _Don’t get me wrong,_ ” Ed says quickly, “ _I would give it up in a heartbeat for Alphonse or you anytime… but sometimes-”_ another sigh, “- _it feels like when I lost my limbs. It feels like it’s there - but it isn’t. Sometimes it’s painful._ ”

Alphonse does not stay to hear anymore, he’s already overstayed as is. He turns, and walks on autopilot back towards his room, his shame an effective fuel.

 

* * *

 

*******

His steps are heavy, sluggish, uncoordinated as he he makes his way towards the kitchen on feet he cannot fully feel.

The awareness of his body is numb at best. Absent in his own vessel, he does not care - or is conscious enough - to make silent his lumbering steps towards his goal. It is only luck that no one stirs to check on the supposed zombie that moves across the house.

His skin has been ripped from him, torn apart in the visions of his slumber in a dream that continues to repeat itself. At every inch the flesh he had is stripped away, and what is left is a cold fire that licks greedily, white hot.

He’s back at the basement. He’s back staring face first at his own sins, wretched and spitting out its last breath as it dies after a second of its birth.

He’s not made of flesh and blood, not a _human_. Metal replaces his skin, and it is cold and uncaring.

He’s on autopilot when he eventually reaches the kitchen, unaware of his trek but fully focused and what he must do. The world is no more than a hallucination as he reaches into one of the drawers within the kitchen. He knows full well what the drawer holds, and he knows full well what he is going to do.

The knife he holds glints sweetly in the moonlight, beckoning with gentle words.

Alphonse pauses, seeing the knife against his arm. The blade presses lightly, and the contrast between each has him delay. Light against his arm does not gleam as brightly as the light against the knife, different material, different _metal_ -

He presses the knife deeper, and the sudden stinging is reminiscent of the fires that consumed him in his dreams. Sharp, piercing, concentrated into the breakage of his skin.

 _His skin_ \- the metal that had been there prior dissipates as he sees his blood trail into a steady, neat stream of crimson downwards from the cut he had just made.

He’s enthralled, and does not feel himself smile slightly as a sense of relief overpowers him.

He moves the knife downwards, to bring the original cut its twin, and after that, its full family of seven.   

 

* * *

 

“You think I should study automail?”

Alphonse looks up to his brother, who leans against the doorway to Alphonse’s room with his hands in his pockets with a pensive expression on his face.

Alphonse has been reading on his bed, and neatly puts his book to the side as he lifts himself to give his brother his full attention.

“Probably a good idea, yeah.” Alphonse responds, honestly. Being able to take care of his own leg instead of badgering Winry would do him some good.

Ed nods, and steps into Alphonse’s room.

“I’ve been thinking of going to Rush Valley with Winry.” Ed says, considering, the words careful on his tongue as he recites them. Alphonse shifts, and knows this is a discussion his brother and Winry had continued that other night. Winry and Granny are absent from the house at the current time, doing errands into town and leaving the brothers behind.

“She’d be a good teacher.” Alphonse says, once more honest but it makes Ed wrinkle his nose.

“She’s not going to be my _teacher,_ ” he scoffs, folding his arms in front of him in annoyance and Alphonse quirks a brow at the reaction. “She’s just going to - give me some pointers.”

Alphonse nods, slowly, taking stock in Ed’s rosy-twinged cheeks.

“She’s been teasing you about that, hasn’t she.” Alphonse says easily, and it isn’t a question. Edward’s open body language makes him easy as a book to read, and Ed gives an undignified snort.

“ _Okay,_ ” Ed relents, lifting his hands in defeat, “she’s terrible. She won’t shut up about it.”

Alphonse snorts, bringing himself to a standing position across from his brother as he responds, “well, no one would be able to deal with you better than her. She already has experience with your attitude.”

Ed squints, “what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Alphonse rolls his eyes and lets out a small snigger, lifting his hands to an innocuous suggestion. “Just that she’d make the perfect fit for you, is all.”

Alphonse aims to rustle more of Ed’s ire, but what he is greeted instead is Edward staring wide eyed at him.

Not at his eyes. Their gazes do not meet until Ed whips his sights back up to his younger brother. It is only when Alphonse follows where Ed’s previous gaze was, that he realizes that the long sleeves he's been meticulously been wearing for days for the sole purpose of hiding his actions from the nights prior, have failed in its task at the worst possible moment.

The world is suddenly brought into a sudden, terrifying halt. He thinks he feels vertigo from it, and he actually takes a shaky step backwards as he attempts to reach for the offending sleeve to correct it.

He knows re-obscuring his wounds would not change anything, but not seeing the ugly lines that play upon his skin makes him feel he could ignore their existence in its entirety, and have Edward forget he saw them.   

It only spurs Ed to do something that has Alphonse respond by having his heart skipping a beat, because his brother takes a swift step forward and grabs at his arm.

The sleeve slides downwards once more, and the horrible truth feels like a slap to the face

“What’s - What’s _this_?” Edward spits.

Alphonse cannot respond, his throat is suddenly dry, suddenly clamped closed tightly. His body has gone rigid, his limbs no longer responding as he simply stares, wide-eyed, at his brother. Edward’s face is pinched into indignation, the grip on his arm is tight and merciless.

“ _Alphonse._ ” Ed all but growls, “These are - _scars.”_ He uses his other hand to uselessly wave in his wrist’s direction, “Why are they here?”

Edward already knows _why_. Alphonse knows he does, it’s clear to see they are self-inflicted. It does not take a genius to see it, but his brother asks regardless. His voice is deeply seated in an air of disbelief, and Alphonse swallows thickly as he tries to find his voice.

“I just -” He starts, his words trembling, “I just needed to make _sure._ ”

“Sure of _what?_ ” Ed bites out.

“That - that I could -” His vision begins to blur at the corners, “that I was _me.” that he has flesh and blood, and not a body of metal, “_ that I had… A body.”

Alphonse tears his gaze away from his brother, and downwards to the floor and his feet. The air feels cold around them, but Edward’s grip loosens as it frees from his wrist. Alphonse simply lets his arm fall to his side.

“Oh, _Alphonse._ ” Ed says, and whatever previous fire he had before has seemingly been entirely sapped from him. What replaces it is defeat.

“You -” Ed begins, and it prompts Alphonse to bring his sights back upwards. “you just got this body, You can’t go fucking it up.”

Alphonse winces, and rubs at his sleeve to bring it downwards to once more obscure his scars. Edward continues, lifting his hands in front of him to accent his words, “You spent so long getting it back. You can’t fucking hurt yourself. Why didn’t you - Why -”

Ed’s hands suddenly land upon Alphonse’s shoulders, gripping tight like an eagle securing its prey.

“Al, you never fucking do this again.” Ed says, the venom returning, the talons of his fingers digging beneath Al’s jacket and straight into his skin. “Do you hear me? You don’t ever do this. When - When you need to make _sure_ ,” he almost spits the words, “you come to _me._ You go to Winry. You go to Granny. You go to Teacher - fuck, you go to Den. And you ask. You fucking _ask,_ and we tell you. You don’t get a damn knife. Do you hear me?”

He does hear him, loud and clear. His brother’s voice is a startling contrast to the silence of everything else, but it still feels distant all the same.

“I’m sorry.” Is all Alphonse is able to murmur out. It sounds disconnected from himself. It _feels_ disconnected.

“Do you understand?” Ed says, shaking Alphonse’s shoulders lightly.

“I’m sorry -”

“ _Do you understand?_ ” The shaking is harder.

“You can’t do alchemy because of me.”

His voice is quiet, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Ed hadn’t actually heard, but he knows by Edward’s stunned silence, and widened eyes, that he heard.

“Alphonse.”

“You can’t do alchemy because of me and I- I can’t even keep myself together.”

And it’s so _true_. It tears at him at the seams, ugly and cruel, and he can’t bare to look at his brother any longer. He turns his gaze downwards at his feet again.

“Al-”

“You worked so hard to get my body back. You gave up so much for me. And I can’t-”

“ _Alphonse!_ ” Edward’s near yell and accompanied iron grip on Alphonse’s shoulders has Al splutter to an undignified halt.

Looking up at his brother, he sees Ed’s eyes are puffy, lined with moisture as his face is contorted into a swirl of frustration and pain.

“You’re my _brother,_ ” Ed says, nearly through gritted teeth.

“But -” Alphonse wants to say that it still isn’t _fair_. Even if they share blood, Ed shouldn’t feel obligated to sacrifice his own happiness for him. But Ed, evidently, vehemently does not want to hear any of it.

“ _You’re my brother._ ” Ed repeats, deliberately enunciating each word slowly. He cups his younger brother’s face, forcing Alphonse to look at him. “You’re my family. Even if it looks like it doesn’t get through your thick skull -” he accents this but lifting a hand and jabbing a finger at Alphonse’s forehead before placing it back to cup his younger brother’s face, “- you’re my brother and I love you, you damn idiot.”

Even if on the brink of tears, Ed’s eyes are piercing, filled with determination as his gaze stabs into Alphonse.

Alphonse wants to respond, but his brother does not give him the chance to.

“And I’d give up my alchemy - fuck, and all my goddamn limbs - for you.” Ed’s hands move back to Alphonse’s shoulders, still firm, still gripping. His voice is likewise, even if it trembles slightly, as does his arms, “I would do all of it again for you, Al, I don’t even have to think about it. There’s nothing I _wouldn’t_ give for you.”  

“But you shouldn’t - _have_ to,” Alphonse cringes at his own voice: cracked, defeated. He sounds pathetic.

“I don’t _care_.” Ed sounds offended, “I _choose_ to. And I would choose _you_ every time, and you’re going to have to deal with it.”

So shamelessly open, a soul bared fully and entirely earnest. It makes Alphonse feel vulnerable, held under his brother’s gaze. His chest is tight, painfully so, and he grips at Ed’s forearms for purchase as he attempts to find his voice. Edward’s face searches Alphonse, and his emotions swim freely across him, painting him at every inch and for all to read. Fear, compassion, frustration - and Alphonse suddenly feels like he is looking at a mirror.

“I would too.” Alphonse is finally able to whisper out. “I’d choose you too, brother, over anything.”

It’s true, it’s _sappy_ , and in any other context Alphonse may have wrinkled his nose at such raw sentiment. But at the moment, staring at Ed’s eyes, he knows that if their places were reversed, if he found Ed had self-inflicted scars, his reaction would have been the same. The vocal admission of such, of hearing his own and Ed’s words himself, makes it feel as though something within him comes together. It feels chipped, not neatly put together, but a beginning of restoration regardless.

The feeling is elevated as Ed quickly pulls Alphonse closer into a gripping hug. His arms wrap around Alphonse in a tight tangle, and all Alphonse can do to respond is by melting completely into it. He wraps his arms around his brother likewise, and finds himself heaving in a broken breath as his tears spill over onto his cheeks.

He can tell from Edward’s shuddering shoulders and rigid hold onto Alphonse’s jacket that his older brother’s face is also streaked with his own tears.       

Alphonse is able to stutter something out, through his unkempt tears that make a mess of his face.

“We’re really breaking apart, aren’t we, brother?” he murmurs. It is only due to the fact his leans into his brother’s shoulders and near his ear that Edward even hears him. He hears Ed give out a snort.     

Ed then gives out a humourless laugh, pulling away from Alphonse, rubbing at his face that is a blotchy red.

“Maybe.” Ed says. He looks tired, Alphonse feels likewise, but he wears a small smile. “But at least…” he sluggishly waves his hand in between them, “... at least we got each other to pick up the pieces.”

 

* * *

 

Nearing a month since then, his nightmares still follow, but progressively they’ve decreased to giving him a couple of days of peaceful rest. His scars, while still clearly visible, are at the very least healing, and have not gotten any more companions.

Though there are moments of weakness, wherein he wishes to further carve into his flesh and marvel at his blood. But those moments do not cultivate into his skin being decorated in red with his opened skin, but blossomed in a pale rose when he finds himself absentmindedly scratching at the area.

He’s already played with the scar tissue, much to Edward’s annoyance, stripping at the scabs. But his brother is just thankful the lacerations have not increased, and Alphonse is thankful Edward had promised to not mention anything to Winry or Granny - provided the scars continue to remain their original count.

Alphonse relaxes on the porch, leaning against the railing as the sky is a wash of soft hues, as it’s some ungodly hour of the morning.

The sun is no more than a small dune across the horizon, the ribbons it produces are faint, decorating the sky above.

He is awake not because of a nightmare, but he is to meet Zampano and Jerso at the first train into Resembool. The lot of them having exchanging correspondences, and having come to agreement for their proposed trip to Xing, and the trio have decided to meet in person to discuss the trip fully. He is already dressed in his best, dress pants and jacket.

It was May who wrote him first, inviting him to study alkahestry across the desert.

Speaking with his family of the arrangement, Ed thought to tag along, but eventually decided he would be better suited to accompany Winry to Rush Valley and learn the art of automail ( _“And be my apprentice,” Winry had indeed teased relentlessly_ ).

(And both brothers, in private, had thought it prudent that because the two of them have always been co-dependant on one another for their entire journey, that it would do them good to go their own way and live for themselves. Alphonse already knows his desk will be filled with letters from each other).

Alphonse sighs, simply basking in the soft light the growing sunrise gives. Den lays lazily next to him, snoring, having followed him but then promptly falling back to sleep outside.

Gazing into the horizon, sun slowly becoming a stronger presence, the light winds that feel like a warm comforter on his skin, he comes to a conclusion. It is one he is confident within.  

Even if the road may be rough, he thinks - he _knows_ \- that it will all be okay.

He smiles, softly, and the sun rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long to get this up. My motivation ran dry and, well, writing’s a pain in the ass to do. And i had a lot of health stuff to deal with lmao  
> but i love alphonse which is why i started this series in the first place. and i didn’t want to leave this unfinished and i love alphonse. Did i mention i love alphonse?  
> Hope you enjoyed, thanks so much for reading! (｡’▽’｡)♡


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